


Trespasser Drabbles

by AniasTrevelyan (Callmeisolde)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Depression, M/M, Post Trespasser, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9913169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeisolde/pseuds/AniasTrevelyan
Summary: Garret Trevelyan is pretty sure he's going to die. Problem: he hasn't told Dorian yet.Dorian is returning to Tevinter. Problem: he hasn't told the Inquisitor yet.They won't have much time to dance around. The anchor is spreading, the Exalted Council is progressing and the veil is being threatened with a severe sundering. If I'm making this sound humorous at all, it's to keep from crying because the angst is strong. Things progress, the anchor is removed, and Dorian and Garret must deal with the traumatic events of the crossroads if they are to have any hope of salvaging their relationship.My head is filled with tonnes of semi-canon compliant Trespasser and post-trespasser headcanons. I've been writing them down since the DLC came out. Time to clean them up and post them in order.UPDATE: Now complete (with a bonus).





	1. Arrival

_Let the blade pass through the flesh,_

_Let my blood touch the ground,_

_Let my cries touch their hearts._

_Let mine be the last sacrifice._

Garret Trevelyan leaned against the balcony railing of his lavishly appointed guest apartment in the Winter Palace. He’d just arrived -– fashionably late (Vivienne would remark) for the start of the Exalted Council. His procession of aids and attendants, advisers and companions had made its way through the gardens some scant hours before dusk. The dinner hour was painfully behind them, no time afforded for mingling or searching for old friends. A travesty, Garret would bemoan to other dignitaries, as though his arrival, and it’s timing, had not been carefully planned and orchestrated. Josephine would have liked the full party, networking and appearances and hand shaking, maybe a few dignified words -- but Garret never had the stomach for such extended pleasantries. Even less so these days.

Garret felt quite the perfect picture, gold and red formal wear, gloves up to his elbows. Every bit the powerful leader of Thedas’ most powerful organization. He had grown out his hair since his last visit to Halamshiral -– much to Josephine’s annoyance. The scar above his left ear had been a permanent fixture of his appearance for years. It curved in an arc like a sideways smile from the top of his ear to the crown of his head. His hair was short in The Circle and he kept it that way after leaving -- it made him look clean cut, respectable -– but he didn’t like seeing the lopsided smile of the scar.

It was a long time ago, he was a boy and still with his family in Ostwick. His magic had begun to manifest. One moment, he was laughing with his sister, playing or play fighting. The next she was screaming at him, the air between them crackling with electricity like static. She didn’t tell. Not for a long time. When Garret was finally caught, it was too late. He had hurt someone. To stop him, his elder brother knocked him out, leaving the scar. When he woke up, he was in The Circle. He never resented that action, nor being in that place.

He worked hard to control his magic after that.

Becoming Inquisitor had made him more powerful than he could ever have believed. Even so, every time the anchor surged with its own indomitable will he remembered that old feeling of helplessness. How much did he control it, really?

In the here and now, Garret watched the sun setting over the courtyard. The soft green mouth of the breach -– lips closed now but ever gaping in his thoughts -– smiled down at him from between purple and pink painted clouds. He turned his attention to one of the fountains several stories below the balcony. The surface of the water glittered with a golden, shimmering light. He could almost touch the top of the spray. Occasionally, a strong breeze carried droplets of the golden water to his cheeks.

The weeks ride from the Frostback Mountains had taken a toll on him. With Corypheus two years defeated, Garret's body was not as used to riding as it once was. A few hours of sparring a day, the occasional peacekeeping mission or excursion to the Frostback basin or deep roads. Fights were fewer and farther between. The rides shorter, the beds softer. The council wouldn’t really begin until tomorrow, so for tonight Garret was free to relax. Relaxation however, was no more a part of his routine than riding.

Despite his unease, or perhaps because of it, Garret looked forward to seeing his friends. Mother Giselle had mentioned “the Tevinter ambassador” casually as though his cheeks didn’t redden. It had been months since Dorian and Garret had spoken. Tersely worded letters a poor substitute for the long talks they had shared before he left. On top of that, other friends and companions had returned for the council and Josephine was going to take him to an Opera. The next few days were promising to be busy and exciting, terrifying and maybe just a bit fun. For tonight, however, he was alone.

In one hand, he casually toyed with a caprice coin. He twirled the gold between his fingers nimbly, spinning it behind, then back to the front of his index finger with the help of the pointer and ring. He did this with his right hand. His left tensed and relaxed around the anchor. It glowed and pulsed and spread. The anchor meant outside forces. It meant wrong and unnatural, but it also meant power and authority. It made him strong, changed who he was –- gave him purpose -– but it was also killing him. He wasn't sure before –- not certain when the thought solidified into fact -- but it’s obvious now.

There are those he should tell. The very companions who demonstrated their continued devotion by coming to Halamshiral for a start. Garret thanks the maker for each one of them, but he cannot share this.

Leliana would offer him quiet, sympathetic support. To have her agents double their efforts on his behalf, research all manner of Elven lore – do anything. Then she would nod, her eyes warm but distant, and retreat.

Cullen would be warmer. In the years since Corypheus’ defeat he had been a loyal friend. He would scrunch up his face, thump Garret on the back, and promise the same as Leliana. He would fight harder in the sparring ring; he would bury himself in paperwork.

Josephine would be distraught. A master diplomat, expert at The Game, but she would not hide her grief from him. Not after the countless hours they spent talking, working and waking across a desk from one another. There might be tears. A terrible situation worth avoiding at all costs.

Sera would swear, threaten, and posture. She would want to shoot arrows into something, make something bleed. Sera was a force to be reckoned with and Garret had done a lot of reckoning. Fighting and arguing and talking -- and laughing. They had done their fair share of laughing. Her laughter was important to him, it made him feel like a real person, it tethered him to himself. No point spoiling the fun, if she knew he were dying the laughter would be spoiled.

Thom -- formerly Blackwall -– would be very quiet. Thom had been absent from Skyhold for a long time. He was on his own journey and Garret was just glad to have a chance to spend time with his friend. When you got Thom, Sera and Garret in a room together the night tended to wind mysterious paths and end in strange places. Their friendship was vital. If he told Thom, the big burly man might hug him. Maker forbid, almost as bad as Josie.

Cassandra would move mountains. She would rally the armies, employ every researcher and scholar and enchanter who would heed the call of The Divine and she would promise him everything. She would say exactly what she thought he wanted to hear, I won’t let this happen. You’re going to be fine. The Maker would not let this happen. Cassandra was one of his dearest friends. A pity he hadn’t spent more time with her in the last two years.

Bull wouldn’t say much. He was a constant, reliable rock that formed the foundation for Garret’s life as Inquisitor. His loyalty and support could never be questioned. His advice could not be priced in gold. Bull would keep it straight and honest and tell him exactly what no one else would, exactly what he needed to hear, _this is shit._

Cole might have some small wisdom, some overheard thing. He might pull out Garret’s thoughts and spill out his feelings in front of everyone, or worse, spill their feelings for him. He would want to help but be able to do nothing and Garret would have to look his friend in the eye and know the pain reflected there was caused by him.

Vivienne would be straightforward -- comforting but not condescending. She would promise him results; promise him to look into this herself. _I have something for that_ , she might say. _Rub this on it. Let me see that_. She had an answer for everything and never accepted defeat.

Varric would be hurt. _You didn’t say anything before now? Well shit_. Garret remembered the dwarf after the fade, after Hawke, and it still hurt somewhere under the rib cage. What letters would he write when Garret died? Would he be the one to write to the Trevelyans or would that fall to Josephine?

Sometimes Garret thought about Solas. If he had somewhere to write, some way to contact his old friend he would. If anyone could tell him what was happening, it would be him. Solas would have some answer, some insight into the Elven magic that was slowly sapping at Garret’s life. He would know what to do. Damn him for leaving, for disappearing. Garret had been telling Leliana to continue the search, to redouble the efforts to find the elf. Maybe she knew why. She didn't argue.

And then there’s Dorian.

Garret forced his attention back to the golden coin held now between his thumb and pointer finger. Before the caprice coins came to be tokens in The Grand Game, status symbols thrown away to prove you have money to spare, they were something different. Sacrifices to Andraste on behalf of Chevaliers. Bribes to keep the soldier safe. Bring him home.

Superstitious – perhaps.

Garret rolled his shoulders up and down his back to relieve the stiffness in his spine. He pressed his lips quickly to the golden coin and tossed it down into the fountain. Not sparing another look, he retreated, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before light broke. He closed the doors to the balcony and pulled the velvet drapes over the breaches smirk.

#

Dorian had been in Halamshiral for several days, waiting.

The life of a dashing, politically polarizing ambassador was quickly beginning to lose its novelty. Thankfully, former companions and sometimes friends began showing up around the same time he did. Drinking ale with Bull and the Chargers is not something one grows tired of. Then there’s Sera and Blackwall to keep things as interesting as possible and even Varric and Cole to help take his mind off his long distant lovers extreme tardiness.

Then everything quickly changed.

First there was the letter from the Magisterium. Dorian’s father had been assassinated. His status in the Imperium was to pass to Dorian. In a matter of mere hours it seemed as though everything was different. One moment, he had been planning on returning to Skyhold with the Inquisition and spending some much needed time with Garret -– and the next -– he was a magister.

Garret was about to face a jury that would decide the fate of the Inquisition, the next few weeks would undoubtedly be stressful, difficult, and tiresome. Garret never took joy in the machinations of nobles or the playing of The Game. Most of this would fall to Josephine and Leliana, but Garret would invariably need all of his faculties to survive this much political manipulation. How could Dorian tell him that he would be returning to Tevinter?

For good.

He had spent the last several days (and sleepless nights) considering options. If the Inquisition survived this council, and Dorian returned to Tevinter, he would certainly do so alone. Garret would be too busy to leave. Dorian wasn’t sure he wanted the help. If Garret tagged along it would look like a grab for power. If the Inquisition dissolved and Dorian returned to Tevinter, there would be no place for even a retired, former Inquisitor. Magisters would wonder if Garret, a powerful mage in his own right, were making a bid for a seat in the Magisterium. He would almost undoubtedly be assassinated. Tevinter wasn’t safe. Of course, it was hardly safe for Dorian either but at least, to him, those dangers meant home. And if Dorian stayed he would be giving up his father’s seat in the Magisterium. He would be putting an end –- for good -– to the Pavus family name. When he thought of this option -– and truly, his mind never lingered here long -– he remembered heated arguments with his father, his mother breaking into tears. He had already cast off the option of bringing an heir into the world. He had already accepted his lot as a bleak familial disappointment.

Then -- close to twilight -- Garret finally arrived. All too late, and somehow still too soon.

Dorian watched as the procession passed through the gates of the Winter Palace. There was Cullen on a Ferelden Forder, Josie on her Taslin Strider and at the fore Garret astride the Inquisition Barded Charger. They made a regal threesome in their ridiculous red formal wear and trailed by the contingent of Inquisition forces, Leliana somewhere inconspicuously among them.

Garret’s hair was longer, styled almost Tevene in fashion, shaved short on the sides only. His face was darkened with more beard than Dorian would normally approve of. He looked tired, thin under the formal wear. Uncomfortable on the horse. Dorian watched the procession with a dour expression. Seeing Garret produced a feeling not unlike being revived by elfroot potions after losing consciousness in the white snowy expanse of the Emprise. Suddenly warm in the belly and numb everywhere else. With a headache.

Garret would surely be occupied with meetings and audiences upon his immediate arrival, what was Dorian to do in the meantime but uncurl the knots in his stomach with some well-earned wine?

The tavern was mostly empty, so Dorian drank alone. The wine tasted foul. He felt foul. It had, of course, occurred to him to show up at Garrets door with a bottle and a cheap rebuke for tardiness -– but knowing the conversation they must have, he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

The light in the sky finally dipped below the horizon and darkness swept the Winter Palace. Dorian could hear The Iron Bull laughing somewhere nearby, maybe coming this way, and he suddenly wanted very much to remain alone. He lifted himself blearily to his feet, wondering if it would be bad form to leave a half empty bottle of wine sitting around. He decided,  _yes, it is,_ so he took it with him. Entering the palace, he fully intended to return to his own appointed rooms. At a joining of halls, he hesitated.

Right to Trevelyan, left to isolation.

He put one foot right and then swung back, stomping straight down the hall with eyes on the floor. His forward momentum failed him unexpectedly as he passed a recessed alcove. The sun had long abandoned the sky and a pool of orange candlelight flickered against the cool darkness of the hallway. A sculpture of The Blessed Andraste watched over the alcove, the hem of her gown made golden by the candles and her spiked crown tipped with bright white light from the smile of the moon beyond the window.

Dorian spent a moment in silence, idly twisting the ruby ring on his right pointer finger with his thumb. He glanced backwards, hoping not to see the hallway darkened by another parishioner. Stepping inside, Dorian bucked the urge to drop to a knee and even managed a trill laugh at the thought. As an Andrastian he had as much right as any to be here. Still, some poor Orlesian noble would lose their lunch to find the Tevinter magister desecrating their sacred Andraste. This thought gave him a momentary thrill.

Dorian sighed deeply, why did I even come here? He traded his empty bottle of wine for a wood lighting stick from a table near the alcove entrance and stepped to the foot of the altar. Dorian bent to one knee, raising an eyebrow at himself, he wondered through a fog if the wine might have been poison and thus his new penchant for prayer. He lit a new candle at Andraste's feet.

The candles -- each one lit for a loved one or friend, were plentiful enough to feel like a blush on his cheeks. After a long exhale, he spoke. “Andraste, I … have no chant to offer. Just this small light. You have made him your herald, you have moved through him for good – now, please…” Dorian bowed his head, “Let him be legend no more. Let your divine machinations end… let him go.”

When his prayer was complete Dorian rose, careful to brush the dirt off the silk of his knee before stepping back into the hall.


	2. Before the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Garret are reunited, but it doesn't go perfectly and there are things left unsaid. Bonus points for BFF's.

“Inquisitor?”

Garret started awake, jerked upright in the bed and threw the blanket off in a single swift motion. He wheezed, his chest restricted by the sudden arc of pain from his left shoulder.

“Ah, Inquisitor --” Josephine closed the door quickly and whirled to face the wall, peeking back over her shoulder. “You are all right, yes?”

“Josie.” Garret winced, rotating his shoulder in its socket and flexing his hand. “Yes, I’m all right. Have I overslept?” He slipped out of the bed and quickly pulled a soft spun tunic over his head.

As he dressed, Josephine deftly picked up Garret’s discarded clothes from the previous day and folded them, located the traveller's trunk and picked out a formal suit in gold and sunset orange. She nodded to herself, continuing about the room. “You’ve missed the breakfast.” She said, “Just a few hours before talks are to begin.” She spared a glance back as Garret fastened his belt over the orange jacket, watching him more closely than he would have deemed necessary. Josie kept a close eye on him these days, eyebrows often knitted while she took inventory of what pain he couldn’t hide. “If you wish to visit with anyone in particular, you might do so now.”

Garret grimaced, half with distaste as he arranged his glove over the mark, hardly able to block out the green glow that showed through the reinforced fabric, and half with the thought of the conversations surely to take place. He stepped in front of Josephine as she paced through the room, kissed her cheek. “What would I do without you, Josie.” he said softly. He could have told her then. Instead, he smiled very softly, “Where is he then?”

Josephine made a show of not teasing him, “The Tevinter Ambassador seems quite popular with the Orlesian nobility, a rare and exotic specimen. I have yet to have the pleasure myself. They keep him quite busy in the gardens.”

Garret steeled himself with a long inhale, “Let's get it over with shall we.”

#

Dorian felt his stomach tumble and knot, his breath leaving his lungs rapidly and with no regard for the conversation he was attempting to carry with Montfort, the Orlesian ambassador.

There he was.

The Inquisitor stepped hesitantly into his field of vision and paused, mouth quirking upwards on one side in a shy smile that made Dorian's heart hurt. He gracefully sidestepped the conversation with a polite insult and strode past Montfort without another glance. Once his eyes were locked with Garret's, it was as though the line connecting them was being pulled taut. He must have still been focused on his new role as ambassador, he found himself concerned with the sincerity of his swagger, the sureness of his footsteps.   

“Inquisitor!” A word without familiarity. “How wonderful to see you, old friend.” He regretted the turn of phrase as soon as it left his mouth, Garrets shy smile froze and crumbled.

_He's not my friend he's… never mind what he is._

He didn't mean it -- not really. It was only that they'd been apart for so long and into the nightly silence Dorian had spent hours in argument, practising what he would say when the Inquisitor was again before him. Some days he was sweet, but most days he was sour. _Why didn't you ask me to stay_. It's not that his work in Tevinter wasn’t important -- or needed -- or even bearing fruit because Dorian had already seen results, but when Maevaris retired for the night and Dorian was alone small successes often failed to matter.

The problem when you love someone is this: you are in the unique and singular position to cause them harm. You know their tells, their weak points, their old injuries camouflaged just beneath the skin. So when Dorian calls Garret his friend, continues with polite conversation tinged with flirtation, he knows the wound he is prodding. The hurt. And he's sorry. Really, he is. But he's not ready yet to go back. Doing so will only make it harder to take the next step. To say goodbye.

#

The first round of talks take a lot out of the Inquisitor. His shoulders sag as he makes his way out of the grand hall where he and Josephine have spent the last four hours being interrogated mercilessly by Arl Teagan and Cyril de Montfort, mediated by Divine Victoria. Cass had done an admirable job coming between the two when necessary, but it was imperative she remained impartial. It was beginning to become apparent that things were worse than feared. Teagan was adamant that the Inquisition had overstepped by retaining military installations in Ferelden, and Cyril was trying to play both sides, getting his jabs in under the cover of compliments. It seemed the Inquisition had grown too powerful too quickly, and without the oversight either country deemed necessary. Garret had been called upon to make decisions he had little right making, and yet he had been the only one willing to do so. Now, two years on, his own power spent, he bore the brunt of their displeasure whilst they sat straight-backed and righteous, hands clean. It made his head hurt.

When his obligatory appearances had been made and he had spoken to each noble and welcomed each friend Garret retired to his room. He shirked off the gold formal wear, draped the jacket over a chair and began fumbling with the small buttons on the trousers. Just as solace began to slacken his tightly strung nerves, a knock at the door disturbed the quiet. Garret sighed, glancing at the long mirror on the wall to see if he was at all decent. He looked haggard, the anchor cast a constant sickly glow on the underside of his face. Deciding his cream undershirt would have to do, he opened the door a crack. Dorian was leaning casually on the the door frame with a bottle of wine held loosely in one hand. His eyes were apologetic, soft, but his mouth quirked up flirtatiously when he saw Garrets state of undress.

“Inquisitor, I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction.”

Garret stepped back from the door to let Dorian through and closed it behind, admiring his lover as he swaggered into the room. It had been quite too long since they were this close and alone. Still, the sting of Dorians earlier jibe -- _an old friend, he said_ \-- still reverberated.

Dorian set the wine down on the small round table in the centre of the room, taking in Garrets discarded clothes and the unmade bed. He turned to face the Inquisitor, still quiet, and opened his palms. “You’re upset?”

Garret sighed, shrugged and began wandering away from Dorian. “I haven’t seen you in six months Dorian, two since I heard a simple word. I’ve been thinking about seeing you for just as long --”

Dorian intercepted. “And I you, Amatus.”

“Then what game are we playing?” Garret turned halfway but didn’t meet his lovers eyes, “Are we still…”

“We are _still_.” Dorian interjected, threading his hand through Garrets right, interlocking the fingers. “I apologise for earlier. In Tevinter -- it’s different. I am always guarded. It’s an adjustment, Amatus, that’s all.”

When they’re eyes meet, it's clear. Each has secrets from the other, things unsaid. The problem when you love someone is this: bodies close, skin against skin, the world is golden and unfocused. The cruel and the unfair fade into the murky dark beyond the room. You shine on each other a light so soft and muted the dark recedes to the edges of the mind. There, it's all too easy to ignore. 

#

Thom and Sera have a plan.

Oh it’s a brilliant one, a glowing warm one. A plan for a prank.

“I wasn’t sure if you would be up for this Thom.” Garret wheezed between laughs.

“What, just because I’m using a different name doesn’t mean I’ve changed.”

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

“Well, it doesn’t mean my _humour_ has changed.”

Garret grinned, raised a glass of ale into the air and clinked glasses with the friend he formerly knew as Blackwall. “For Honour and Redemption!”

“For piss and pot.” Sera mocked, cursing behind a smile.

Thom chuckled and finished the flagon. “Ok, I saw the one with the shiny face enter here…”

“They all have those stupid shiny faces.”

“You know the one, Reauchard or some such.”

“And why are we targeting him specifically?” Garret wondered with a raised eyebrow.

“Called me rabbit.” Sera spat.

“He called her a damn pissing rabbit!” Rainier waved his hands for effect.

“Absolutely grounds for a pie. I follow.”

“No, much worse than just a pie, rabbit after all.” Rainier chided. 

“Oh balls, I’m glad you’re back grizzly.” Sera gave him a mischievous, somewhat appreciative look.

“So? What is it then?”

“This.” Sera bit her lips, holding out a hand as though she was about to deliver the most important plan they have ever heard. “We wait for him to fall asleep—they always fall asleep—and we draw a penis on his mask.” She giggled uncontrollably.

Garret spent a moment considering the plan thoughtfully. Shook his head. “This sounds… time-consuming.”

Ranier snorted and Sera scoffed, “look how high and mighty, doesn’t have time…” She considered. “Right—we don’t need to wait for him to sleep—we get a mask, stud it with crystals in the shape of a penis—then you—INKY—you convince him it’s some kind of art thing and he wears it. On purpose.”

“I… might actually be able to do that.”

#

“How was the Opera?” Leliana glanced sideways from the shadow of her hood at Garret, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“It was… an experience I will never forget.”

“Orlesians.” Varric laughed, folding his cards with a shrug. “I’m out.”

“Now what fun is that?” Leliana’s smile as she raked in her winnings from the table would seem out of character to any who knew her less.

Sera laughed from the bar where she was dropping off their empty flagons, “AGAIN! PISS! Where’s the lady ambassador when you need her?”

“Josie is quite busy enough.” Leliana scoffed. “In fact, I should join her. If someone doesn’t remind her to eat…” Leliana pocketed her winnings smoothly and was off.

“Josephine has had her hands more than full with the council.” Garret sighed, “By rights, I should probably be spending as much time with the diplomats as she is…”

“Ah, but how could you resist one more game of wicked grace?”

“I would have said it’s impossible, but what with the emptiness of my pockets, my wicked grace playing days might be numbered.”

“That’s the thing about gambling,” Varric soothed, “there’s always a chance you’ll win it back.”

“The only thing I have left to wager is this very large harbour key you gave me…”

“Ah,” Varric raised his hands in defeat. “It might be best for you to keep that. Wouldn’t want it falling into the wrong hands would we.” He winked just as Sera appeared at Garret’s back to make grabby hands at the key.

“Yes, I shall keep it very safe. I am an incredibly responsible individual.” Garret held the key just out of Sera’s reach and she laughed.

“Wait, is that magey-wagey flexing his arm muscles over there?” She pointed.

“Dorian?” He automatically corrected.

“Yes, Dorian -– he’s definitely flexing -– bursting out of his arm thing or whatever.”

Garret’s eyes narrowed suspiciously but he turned in his chair to look. Just as Sera made a swipe at the key,  Dorian swooped in and snatched it.

“Nice try pipsqueak. I have plans for this key.”

“Sparkler…”

“Don’t worry Varric, I am even more responsible than my counterpart.” He leant down and kissed Garret on the mouth. “Honestly, did you think I would be flexing and bursting for some trivial Orlesian snobs?”

Garret considered carefully, “No, but I was hoping…”

Sera blew a raspberry, snatching they key while Dorian folded over into another kiss. She leapt to her feet and pranced off, Varric rolling his eyes and giving chase.

#

Bodies close, Garret could feel the warmth of Dorian's breath on his face. He wanted to bury his hands in the other man’s robe and pull him even closer. Dorian can never be close enough.

“ _Amatus_ , you will never guess what the Ambassador of Antiva said to the Comtesse …”

Garret leant in, inhaling from the nape of Dorian's neck like he’s some kind of rare flower -– “I bet I won’t.”

“ _Kaffas_ , Garret, you need to shave your face.”

“Does the tender beginnings of my beard bother you, Dorian?”

“Not only do you look like a vagabond apostate … it tickles.”

Garret shrugged, "You're one to talk." Redoubled his efforts, wet mouth leaving kisses below the curve of Dorians left ear.

“I shall miss this,” Dorian said suddenly and Garret pulled away, sobered. They sat in close silence for a moment, hands touching but eyes cast out at the gardens of the Winter Palace. When the silence had gone too long Dorian shook his head to dispel the gloom. “Don’t mind me. Always so frightfully morbid, you know. We have weeks still; the council has barely started.”  

“I still… wish you had told me, before everyone else.” Garret allowed himself a single glance to find Dorian studying him intently. When their gaze met, Dorian's expression softened.

“I am sorry about that. It is not how I wanted you to find out. I had intended us to spend a blissful few days pretending things would simply go back to normal. Foolish I suppose. My father’s death, my appointment -– I would rather not dwell on it quite so much.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Garret said weightily.

“Ah, but I have a gift for you _Amatus_.”

Garret leant back into Dorian’s shoulder, “Tell me its passage across the waking sea, or better yet, my own boat. Tell me it’s my own boat.”

“It’s not a boat -– honestly, I’m sure the Inquisition can procure you a boat better than I. Pariah-hood doesn’t pay that well you know.”

“Then what?”

They have instinctively moved closer again and Garret caught some passing Orlesian quickening their pace upon seeing the lovers on their shady, partially secluded bench. If Dorian noticed or cared, he didn’t let on.

“Here,” He passed Garret a small package of paper and twine wrapped around something solid in the centre. Garret peeled the wrapping off carefully, dragging it out to make Dorian squirm. Eventually, he revealed a round stone, smooth and cold to the touch, with a dark glassy surface polished to a mirrored perfection.

“What is it? A locket?”

“A crystal.” Dorian was almost beside himself with glee, “A sending crystal.”

Garret returned an almost blank stare, mouth beginning to creep up at the edges as he caught Dorian's enthusiasm. Finally, Dorian sighed and folded Garret's hand around the stone.

“It will allow us to speak over great distances, so if you miss me -– or just the velvety sound of my voice -- you can hold the crystal and think of me and the one I bear,” He revealed an identical stone hanging from a cord around his own neck, “will light up and hum. If it’s near, and I promise it always will be, I can answer.”

“We can speak… over crystal?”

Dorian smirked, “yes that’s right. Quite rare, it is amazing what friendship with the Inquisition can get you. We can try it out later, yes?”

Garret smiled, content for a moment to think of  _laters_ and _somedays_ and _soons_. 


	3. Time Runs Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing around the point, vague and uneasy with the others inability to acknowledge the truth, time is running short for them all.

Garret was tired beyond belief. Back from their first journey through the mysterious Eluvians, staying put for a few hours rest, he found himself lying on a mountain of Orlesian silks, draped over the finest of feather mattresses. Despite this, he stared hopelessly at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

The anchor had been flaring painfully since their encounter in the crossroads, power building up in the mark until his hand felt like it was on fire, his very bones aflame. If he dispelled the anchor -– which was not a quiet or subtle task, lighting up the entire Garden outside his window and rattling the panes of coloured glass -- he got only a half-hour or so of blissful peace before the pain began again. _There is very little use,_ he thought, _hiding the anchor any longer_. If his advisors, all staying within hearing range at the palace, didn’t know what was going on than they weren’t doing their jobs very well.

Even the others were beginning to suspect. Garret had caught a glimpse of Sera’s journal, _“Don't say the Inquisitor's hand looks bad. It looks very bad.”_

Did they all know? Were they tip-toeing around the fact that he was slowly dying in front of them? It seemed a morbid thought, a dark, murky place. _Stay out of the dark place Garret._

The anchor was pulsing green light, angry and violent. Longing for an hour of sleep, Garret channelled the power up into his fingertips and grit his teeth, momentarily lighting up the room with an explosion of green fire. When the pain began to ebb and subside Garret used the salve Vivienne made to numb the skin. Finally, he lay back against the pillows and tried to quiet his mind long enough to rest.

No sooner had his thoughts receded than a small, melodic humming began somewhere in the room. Garret sat slowly up in the bed, eyes casting about for the source of the sound and finally alighted on the small package of paper and twine sitting on the table by the door. Dorians sending crystal.

Garret considered staying in bed, the humming was almost soothing in its consistency, but curiosity won.

The crystal was warm in his hand, not cool like when he first unwrapped it. The surface glowed softly -- blue light welling up from deep inside. As Garret took the stone into his hand, the glow intensified even as the humming quieted in response to his touch.

Holding the crystal automatically conjured an image of Dorian in Garret's mind, how excited; giddy his lover was when he showed him his present. _I will always answer._

“Dorian?” Garret whispered to the stone.

“Amatus! You answered!”

The voice was as clear and pristine as if Dorian were actually in the room. Garret took an involuntary step back, almost dropping the stone.

“Dorian!”

“Ahh, no need to yell Garret. Are you holding it? Hold it closer. Just speak normally…”

“I … can’t believe it works,” Garret said somewhat quieter, holding the stone near his heart.

“You have so little faith? Of course it works.”

“Of course.” Garret self-consciously checked behind the drapery, the wardrobe, wondering if Dorian was perhaps pranking him from within the room.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re awake.” Dorian’s voice was soothing in the same way the crystals soft humming was. Garret returned to the bed, laying down with the crystal resting on his chest.

“I’m not the only one up.”

“No… I was worried about you. Has the anchor bothered you since we left the crossroads?”

“Not overly.” Garret lied.

“Good. Good. I … well it must have something to do with proximity to the Elven ruins. Solas did say the orb was Elven. I’m sure that’s it.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

“When this is over… It’ll be fine.” Dorian soothed.

“I’m sure it will.” _One more night, one more day, please Maker._

“You must be exhausted.” Dorian mused, “Between the Qunari and the diplomats, it must be like fighting a war on two fronts.”

“Something like that yes.”

“And I saw you talking to the rest of the rabble in the gardens…”

“I wanted to. It’s rare to have everyone in one place.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” Garret shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the numbing salve on the nightstand and considering applying it more liberally to his arm as sensation began returning, “Bull and Krem and the rest of the chargers are all here -– they’ve been off doing missions for Cullen and Leliana. Sera’s been all over the place with the Jenny’s, Varric's been in Kirkwall, Thom’s been traipsing all over Thedas … I know I should be more focused on the council but with everyone here, and the fighting in the crossroads -– it almost feels like the old days.”

Dorian chuckled, “I find it appalling that the murder and mayhem have you feeling _more_ at home.”

Garret fell silent for a moment, thinking about it all.

“It must be nice to see Cassandra, being Divine keeps her overly busy and you two were close…”

Garret chuckled thinking of Divine Victoria and her silly hat, “I haven’t seen her for … over a year I suppose. Of course, we can’t talk much in private even here, she needs to appear impartial -– but we did have a hilarious moment in the gardens thanks to Varric.”

Dorian perked up, “Oh, do explain.”

Garret smiled, remembering Cassandra's awkward fumbling, _I can go away and come back and we can try this again?_ “Varric told her… well, he told her I was planning on proposing so she had to give me the talk, the 'you deserve to settle down and get married' talk. It was ... well, it was funnier at the time.” He trailed off.

“Propose?”

“Yes… it was, well it was Varric being funny…”

“ _Vishante Kaffas,_ Garret, I will have his head lopped off his shoulders and mounted…”

Garret laughed, “You sound like Cassandra.”

There was silence for a few moments, Garret too drowsy to find the time passing awkward. He drifted in and out of a half-sleep. “You know Dorian… we’ve never talked about marriage.”

“Garret, I’m not going to entertain this conversation this way. It’s late…”

Garret shook his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “You’re right, I’m sorry. I am exhausted -- foolish. Can we speak tomorrow Dorian, I should try to get some sleep.”

“Of course Amatus…”

When silence descended on the room this time it was suffocating. Garret felt a cold weight settling in his chest. There was no more chance of sleep tonight.

Sighing, he got up from bed to write.

 

#

Bull passed him another mug of ale just as he was finishing the first.

“I really shouldn’t, Josephine....” Garret moved to wave the mug away but Bull made a gruff sound of disapproval and set it down firmly, already swiping the empty mug and tossing it in a bucket below the bar. “Where is the actual bartender anyway?” Garret asked, hiding a thankful smile as he took a drink.

“Ah, he’s around. Pours too slow.” Bull waved a hand and leant forward on his elbows while he drank. “So boss, we gonna talk about this whole Qunari situation?”

Garret's eyes widened, “I… do we need to talk? Is it… bothering you?”

“Well, I’m not Ben-Hassrath anymore. It’s not like I owe them anything, besides, these people have got to be Tal-Vashoth.”

“Right… and so are you?”

“Right.”

“So…”

“Being Tal-Vashoth means you choose where your loyalty lies, and boss, mine is with you.”

“Thank you Bull.”

“What about your other situation?”

Garret narrowed his eyes, considering, “You mean Dorian leaving…”

“No, I mean your hand trying to kill you.”

Garret attempted to look surprised, maintain eye contact. “It’s not trying to kill me -– it’s the Eluvians, I’m sure once we leave…” He trailed off; Bull was looking incredulously at him. Garret sighed, checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “It’s fine Bull. There’s nothing anyone can do to help.”

Bull took a long drink from his ale. “Solas…”

“No one can find Solas. I’ve tried.”

He nodded. “And Dorian?”

Garret shook his head.

“He must know?”

“If he does -– we’re both playing dumb.” Garret felt his eyes stinging, cheeks reddening. Hopefully Bull would chalk that up to the drink.

If he did notice anything, Bull didn’t mention it, he passed Garret another drink when the first was empty and Garret quietly thanked the maker for former spies and not having to hear any comforting words.

Garret cleared his throat, “Have you seen the Viscount?”

Bull considered, “Not much, leadership is keeping him occupied. Want me to ask around?”

Garret shook his head, “I’ll find him later.”

“Sure boss.”

#

Garret was busying himself with the mundane.

The evening was drawing long and dark before him and he wasn’t relishing the thought of returning to his room alone. If this was to be his last night -– and he was more and more sure it would be -– he was loath for it to end.

There are a few hours of light left in the sky, long enough to run his last few errands.

To the shop to sell what bits he’s collected on the last few journeys through the mirrors. To the blacksmith to burnish the dents from the last fight out of his armour and add a new sigil. He had to meet with his advisors soon, still had an important stop to make, but in the meantime, he wandered to the balcony overlooking the lake and watched the fireworks exploding in the distance. Colourful plumes of purple -– red –- green and blue drew awe and admiration from the Orlesians in the garden. He was transfixed by the excitement of the crowd when the familiar pain started in his arm.

It was more than just his hand now -– as the power built in the anchor it wrenched bones and muscles out of place -– it played his nerve endings like a lute sending vibrations up the strings into his shoulder and chest. It began subtly until he felt the first pang. His right hand clutched at his chest. He spun on his heels and shouldered back through the crowd. By the time he passed the tavern he was stumbling, knowing he wouldn’t reach his rooms before the anchor discharged. He veered off the path and stumbled behind one of the shops. A practice dummy shifted in a breeze and the cold air of day fading to night kept Garret tethered to his body.

He fell to his knees, clutching his forearm, and tried to bring the pain under control to safely discharge the anchor.  Breathing short and heavy between clenched teeth he thrust his arm into the air,  the energy of the mark exploding out of his hand. It took a minute, no more than sixty seconds. Relief washed over him as his arm fell limply to his side. There’s was a bite of pain as it touched grass and he realised he’d lost another fingernail. Blood sprung to the unprotected tissue and dripped onto the muted orange of his dress uniform.

It didn’t take long for the first of his companions to arrive.

Bull, followed by Sera and then Thom who were likely all in the tavern moments before and -– unlike the Orlesian’s nearby –- couldn’t mistake the green light of the anchor dissipating into the sky as just another firework.

Garret didn’t want to look anyone in the eye, he avoided their gaze as Rainier helped him to his feet and Sera slid her hand into his.

#

Varric was missing the action. Or at least, that’s how it felt. Being Viscount of Kirkwall kept him up to the elbows in missives and messages. _Put that in the pile, just there, yes, under all the other papers Bran. OH and that -- just light it on fire for me, will you?_

The light was drawing thin tonight, darkness permeating the gardens outside the window. Colourful explosions of light shot into the air somewhere out over the water beyond the palace. The Orlesians were celebrating the council. Distracting themselves from reality. How much the nobility knew of what was really going on -- with the crossroads, the Qunari -- was unclear. Probably nothing. Let them have this night then, to celebrate and revel in their illusion of security and peace. Varric rustled around his desk looking for the notebook with the inquisition eye stamped on the cover. He flipped through his notes to the last page -- _The inquisitor arrives at the talks, astride the Barded Charger. He strikes a regal pose and maybe it’s only those who know him best -- those who have fought at his side in the dark of a bloody night, who have forced elfroot down his throat after he fell to a templars blade, who have watched him deliver justice from the Inquisition’s golden throne and then wander aimlessly through the gardens for hours, wracked with guilt over his decision -- maybe only those who called him -- not herald, not inquisitor -- but friend, could see he was not himself. Nervous maybe? Was he concerned about the council? Time would tell._

Varric jotted down another few sentences, biting his already ink-stained thumb as he paused over the wording. Just as he put the last word to paper there was a thud at his door.

“Bran, who’s there?”

The seneschal sighed dramatically and got up from his own mountain of paperwork. At the door, he picked up a bundle from the stoop and squinted down the corridor.

“A messenger I think,” he passed the sheaf of papers to Varric. “From the Inquisitor.”

Varric put down his pen and accepted the bundle. He untied the string that bound it and dismissed Bran with a wave, turning to his candle to read the words printed in Garret’s scholarly scrawl. 

_My dear friend,_

_Forgive me for being unable to deliver this in person, but I have a request..._

#

Two days after Garret brought it up casually, almost thoughtlessly, Dorian found himself in front of his lover’s door an hour before sunrise.

He paced for a few extra moments before knocking. He cared little at this moment for what prying eyes might see or passing observers might whisper. In this moment, he was a man exhausted, in love, and terrified.

It was clear now, having been through the crossroads on two separate occasions and witnessing the Anchor becoming progressively more powerful and destructive, that Garret was in trouble. It was clear that no salve, no magical spell –- nothing Dorian could do -– would help.

When the news arrived at the Winter Palace in the form of a tersely worded letter that Dorian's father had been killed –- that he would become a magister -– he had spent days worrying about himself. About loneliness, treachery, assassination attempts –- all of the things that would be waiting for him in Tevinter. He had fretted about telling Garret, he had failed to break the news gently, he had made a mess of things. Now all of that seemed somehow pale, wan, and meaningless.

Of course, he would not return to Tevinter, not if Garret were dying.

Dorian moved the word around the dry lump of his tongue, its flavour repulsive, wrong.

And then there was their conversation in the dark two nights ago.

_“You know Dorian, we’ve never talked about marriage.”_

Of course Dorian had considered it. Before he left for Tevinter, nights long and cold but never lonely in Skyhold, Dorian would wake at first light unable to sleep without the aid of darkness and spend the remaining hours in bed thinking of the life they could have. All he had to do was leave Tevinter behind. He and Garret could live in Ferelden somewhere delightfully nondescript, sell their belongings for a small house off the beaten path -– not too far from civilisation mind you. Maybe they could get a dog.

On the other hand, they could return to Garret’s homeland in the Free Marches. Dorian could meet his family and chide them severely for sending their youngest son to one of those awful southern circles. They could take up Garret's lordship -– get fat and old whilst shirking their responsibilities at every turn.

Those hadn’t been Dorians only thoughts on marriage. He had considered other, less pleasant things as well. Returning to Tevinter with Garret at his side. His mother would cry and his support in the magisterium would vanish into a cloud of smoke. The whispers would grow to a raging roar, _what kind of magister marries his lover –- legitimises his poor taste for all to see? Should have kept his proclivities where they belonged._ In Tevinter, their marriage would be seen as illegitimate. As it was, rumours would swirl and people would whisper about how the Magister Pavus had the Inquisitor from the South as his lover. _Who is influencing whom_ , they would say. Then there was the danger. To both of them. Garret would be a target once again.

If they stayed together -– _of course,_ they would stay together –- Garret couldn’t come to Tevinter.

Returning home didn’t preclude his relationship with Garret, but it wasn’t what he wanted for his _husband_. With his father's death and his looming appointment to the magisterium it felt as though the choice had been made for him.

Now even all this prior reasoning, his carefully practised arguments that went unspoken, seemed not good enough. Now, all he could think was one thing.

_Why put myself through more pain._

He regretted it immediately upon thinking it.

Garret answered the door.

“Amatus,” Dorian leant in, planted a kiss on his lover’s mouth without pausing. Garret’s skin was warm, damp. Garret broke away with a tense smile, motioning for Dorian to enter. Dorian followed into the room, taking in the disarray.

Furniture had been knocked over, blankets and sheets spilt off the bed like some magically coloured waterfall.

“It looks like the Qunari found you…”

Garret rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, “No, no Qunari here that I know of.”

“This…” Dorian motioned to the state of the suite.

Garret sighed, flexing his left hand. “I can’t sleep, I can’t sit down, I can’t lay down, I can’t relax -- every twenty minutes the anchor is …” Garret started pacing with the frenzy of his explanation, stopped abruptly and looked back. “It’s just frustration.”

“It pains you?” Dorian closed the gap between them with a long step.

“Not too badly … just won’t let me sleep.”

“The anchor and I have something in common.”

“You do seem to keep odd hours here Dorian.”

They sat next to each other on the bed, Garret cradling his left arm.

“My routine is so different in Tevinter. Up before dawn to prepare the day's work –- lectures, papers, meetings, luncheons and teas -– well, it’s all rather dull but it starts early and ends late.”

“I hope you find time to sleep.” Garret rubbed his eyes, smiling.

“Not as well as I used to…” Dorian took the opportunity to kiss Garret again, gauging the man's temperature with lips pressed to jaw. “I wanted to talk… really talk, before we go through the Eluvians again, before we face our certain death one more time.”

“This is about… what I asked the other night?” Garret pulled away just enough to look Dorian in the eyes, he looked nervous all of a sudden and Dorian wanted to put all serious discussions away -– fuck until they couldn’t think anymore.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Garret looked down, eyes shaded by the furrow of his brow. Dorian looked away, trying not to think of the sickly green glow that played across the planes of Garret’s face at all times now.

“I have thought… about marriage. Considered it. It just never seemed -– smart.” Dorian stumbled.

“Smart.”

“Right, yes. Deserved, certainly. Wanted, without a doubt, but smart..."

“It has to be smart?”  Garret had a way of looking at him with his eyebrows touching and his eyes saucer-like and huge that made Dorian's heart hurt. It was painfully familiar by now.

_I’m returning to Tevinter -– this time for good._

_What about us?_

_There will always be an us._

“Don’t you think?” Dorian always had to respond with a joke, some flippant response. It’s his way.

Garret sighed, slumping forward with obvious exhaustion. “I don’t know Dorian… I just, I might lose everything at this council and the only thing I care about is _you._ ”

“No wonder Josephine has been glaring at me all week.”

“She certainly has had her work cut out for her. The fate of the Inquisition, even my own fate…” Garret trailed off, his eyes unfocused. “Just don’t go yet. Stay with me?”

Instead of speaking, Dorian lay back on the bed and pulled Garret down to him. He wrapped his arms around his lover and buried his face into the curve of Garret's neck.

“Let’s see if we can’t get a little rest tonight Amatus.”

_One more night._

#

Dorian was pacing in Garret’s empty room when the messenger finally found him.

“Ambassador Pavus, Sister Leliana has called for all of the Inquisitor's companions to meet at the tavern in the garden.”

Under any normal circumstance –- such as full-scale war or the veil being torn open -– Dorian would find this request a serious annoyance. Not only was it hours to go until dawn, there are some boundaries not to be crossed such as getting one's eight hours of sleep. On this night, however, Dorian was not sleeping. He had been waiting for Garret to return from his meeting with the advisors. And he was still waiting.

“Where is the Inquisitor?”

“Sister…”

“Will tell us, yes all right.”

Despite the urgency in his step, he arrived at the tavern last. Turned out the messenger Leliana sent went to his room on the other side of the palace first. _Tsk tsk, some spymaster she is._

The mood was sombre.

Sera paced in a corner, hands busy, mouth a grim line. Rainier leant against the wall nearby, arms folded tightly across his chest. The Iron Bull sat at a table with Krem at his side, hands idly wrapped around an untouched flagon of ale. Vivienne stood rigid and strong as a blade unbowed, as always, but her brown eyes glistened in the candlelight. Varric hunched over one of the tables by himself, glowering at the line he carved into the wood with a knife. Cole flit around the edge of the tavern like he didn’t know what to do with himself -– too many hurts he didn’t know how to help.

When Dorian arrived most of the heads turned to him. Bull didn’t take his eyes off the table in front of him, but six other pairs of eyes turned to meet his. His first reaction would usually be a glib remark –- fashionably late as always Pavus -– but the mood of the room was so dour he sunk into a chair at the end of a wooden table and directed his attention to Leliana in hopes that the others would follow.

The Nightingale nodded to him. “The Inquisitor met with us this hour past…” She began, her voice measured and each word deliberate. “As I’m sure you are aware, the anchor is growing rapidly. The extent is only just becoming apparent –- we believe he has but one chance to find Solas and stop the spread.”

“It’s killing him.” The Iron Bull paraphrased eloquently.

Dorian felt the words settle cold and hard in his chest –- he knew them instantly to be truth. There were some murmurs around the group, Vivienne clucked angrily, already thinking of magic’s to try and spell volumes to unearth. Sera sat down on the dirty wood floor and said nothing. Rainier squeezed her shoulder. Dorian would very much like to be alone –- he could feel Leliana's eyes on him so he locked her gaze in mock defiance.

“Is this true Nightingale?” Varric asked, his voice hoarse, and Leliana nodded.

“It is.”

In the silence, Dorian pushed his chair back with a scrape and got to his feet, “We’re going then, yes?”

Leliana nodded again, “he’s asked for Sera, Rainier and yourself to meet at the Eluvian.”

#

Dorian cornered Garret in the guardhouse before they passed through the mirror. He was furious. 

He was furious. 

“Leliana told us about your little pyrotechnics display during your last chat. Why didn’t you say something?" He charged forward, body vibrating. "I could have done… I don’t know, something?”

Garret looked pained; lines seemed to have formed on his face in the few hours since his meeting with the advisors.

Dorian's hands were balled into fists, hot from the unbidden flames. He wanted to strike out, kill something. The worst part was that he had known. Garret never told him, never said how much pain he was in but Dorian had known. He wanted to rail against the world if only to keep from destroying himself.

Garret moved closer, undaunted by Dorian's rage. He put his hands on his lover’s shoulders.

“Whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade the years we’ve had together for anything.” _Damn you damn you damn you._ “I love you.”

Something that had been very strong once snapped entirely and Dorian heard his voice break with it, “I knew you would break my heart, you bloody bastard.”

Their embrace was desperate, holding and gripping and pulling from across the void to smash bodies together into one form. They held each other until the others arrived, breaking apart only when Garret’s hand flared green and they remembered that the only thing they didn’t have was time.


	4. Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor's life is saved -- but at a cost. 
> 
> Warning: blood and some minorly graphic content in this chapter

The Eluvian was dark –- it's once rippling surface frozen in place. Dorian paced in front of it anxiously, cursing in Tevine as Rainier and Sera moved about the battlefield making sure the Qunari wouldn’t stir from where they’d fallen.

Garret had passed through the Eluvian.

Alone.

The intensity of the anchor in those moments before they were separated was terrifying. Garret's body simply crumbling and flying back through the air whenever the mark flared, pushing everything near it away and ripping any flesh it found indiscriminately apart. Dorian's hand went to the gash across his left shoulder, a wound that torched through his armour as he struggled to get closer to Garret during a surge.

“You should heal.” Rainier held out an elfroot potion as Sera stomped on the head of an already dead Qunari.

“He might need those. Save them.” Dorian shot back, not taking his eyes from the mirror before him.

Thom nodded and Dorian tried not to think that the big bear of a man probably considered Garret already dead.

Turning away from the others, Dorian pulled the small crystal pendant from around his neck and held it tightly in his hand. He closed his eyes and kissed the stone, thinking of his prayer at the foot of Andraste on the first night Garret arrived in the Winter Palace. “Garret,” he whispered to the stone, “come back.”

The Eluvian flashed and sparked to life -- it’s dark solid surface suddenly moving and colourful. Dorian was halfway to the mirror as Garret fell through it. Dorian caught him as he sunk to his knees.

“Where’s Solas, what happened?”

“Gone.” Garret spat through gritted teeth. “Dorian… my arm.”

Dorian turned to the left arm, gripping it above the elbow he felt his way down with his hands, checking pulse points. He unbuckled the gauntlet, unsurprised to find it bloody and torn from the anchors uncontrollable outbursts. When the gauntlet dropped to the grass, he muttered a curse.  The flesh beneath the fabric was worse than he would have guessed; bloody and torn open around the bones of the hand. He looked up at Garret cautiously, trying to judge the other's pain.

“He… did something to it.”

“Garret…?” Rainier stumbled up behind them, Sera following cautiously.

“He’s alright.” Dorian said over his shoulder, and more quietly to Garret, “ _You are all right_.”

Garret’s face was beginning to pale, he stared at his hand in horror. Dorian lifted Garret’s face to be level with his own. “Don’t look, Amatus, look at me.”

Garret obliged, managing a half smile. “So your face will be the last thing I see?”

“We should all be so lucky.” Dorian returned. He felt down the length of the arm, careful of the open wounds. Garret's heart beat was evident in the crook

He felt down the length of the arm, careful of the open wounds. Garret's heart beat was evident in the crook of his elbow, blood flowing thick around the joint. Pulse more difficult to find closer to the hand, the limb turning cold, hard like stone. The light of the anchor didn’t flicker or pulse, it stayed a constant angry green, the tips of Garret's fingers black beneath the blood.

“Can you feel this?” He touched the fingers and Garret shook his head. “Can you move your hand, your wrist?” Garret closed his eyes, shoulders buckling, Dorian caught him as he slumped and held him tightly for a moment, closing his eyes to inhale the scent of his lover’s hair and sweat.

He slid an arm under Garret’s shoulder, planted his feet and lifted. Rainier was ready on the other side, Sera hovering worriedly.

#

As they emerged from the final Eluvian back at the guardhouse Dorian was already issuing orders.

“Send for Vivienne, blankets -- and the surgeon.”

Luckily, there was someone to take action. Leliana was gone in an instant and Cullen was at his elbow helping to support Garret as they stumbled forward. Josephine stepped back to the edge of the room with her hand over her mouth and Dorian tried to not make eye contact as they lowered Garret to the stone floor as a group.

He was shivering, a sheen of sweat covering his face. Dorian moved in close to check his breath and noticed Garret's lips starting to take on a bluish tinge. He put his hands on Garret’s chest and summoned heat to the surface of his skin. He'd seen many wounds, lesser ones, greater. It wasn't always the severity of the wound itself that killed a man. 

“Keep talking Amatus, we’re all listening.”

Garret licked his lips nervously, “right, right. I was saying, doom on all the world -– veil sundering -– it’s a pretty dastardly plan.”

“Never trust a man without hair.” Dorian chided, forcing his voice not to waver.

“I promise to keep that in mind for ... _augh_.” Garret cried out as Cullen tied a bandage around his elbow.

“Bleeding started again.”

“Whatever Solas did is wearing off.” Thom muttered. 

Then Vivienne was in the room with the surgeon and she'd come bearing elfroot and some kind of vile potion that was purple and smelled like death. She touched Dorian lightly on the back and he turned his face away so she couldn’t see the expression there.

“Go on my dear, sit by his head and hold his shoulders steady. I’ll take over here.”

Dorian gripped Garret more tightly, squeezing his good hand. “I’ve got it…”

“Honestly Dorian, you were right to send for me, now; you’ll help him best by stepping aside.”

He swallowed, nodded. She was right and he felt bloody useless. He gave Garret something resembling a reassuring smile and stepped around to his head to kneel. He was loath to release Garret's hand and when he did, he saw the skin he had touched remain white. As he reached out to Garret’s shoulders, he hesitated. His hands were red with blood and there was nowhere clean to wipe them off. He gently lifted Garret’s head into his lap and gripped his shoulders as instructed.

“Keep talking to him, dear,” Vivienne told him, busying herself with blue glowing magic; she stopped only to help Garret down the potion.

Almost immediately colour sprang back into Garret’s face, but his eyelids looked heavy and his pupils looked like they were about to roll back.

“Let’s forget the bald apostate, Garret.” Dorian said quickly, wiping some sweat from his lover’s forehead. “You said you’d take me somewhere more pleasant after all this wrapped up, where are we going?”

“Not Tevinter.” Garret slurred back instantly.

“Fine, no, plenty of time to visit there.”

“Varric… made me a Comte of Kirkwall.”

“He did? Excellent. Although Kirkwall is hardly much better than the deep roads.”

“Antiva?”

“I’ve heard excellent things about Antiva, yes.”

“Dorian,” Garret’s eyes managed to focus on Dorian’s face. Somewhere in the background Dorian vaguely registered what the surgeon was saying to Vivienne, _We’ll have to take the arm._

“Yes, Amatus.”

“I think we should get married. I think… I think it _is_ smart. If the world’s going to end… we might not get _much more time_.”

“Amatus, it might be best if you don’t talk, I’ve heard that almost dying is something like being incredibly drunk in that you’ll probably regret anything you say later.”

“No,” Garret shook his head with surprising vigour, wetting his lips. “I won’t regret this Dorian … I….had not really planned on living through this so if I do…”

“That’s quite enough. I’ll do anything you want.” Dorian’s voice wavered dangerously and he involuntarily caught Vivienne’s eye.

“Drink this dear,” She brought another potion to Garret’s lips and Dorian helped hold his head up to drink. Vivienne turned her gaze back to him. “Hold him still.”

Dorian leant down over Garret, pressing his forearms to his right shoulder even as Cullen did the same to his left.

Garret’s eyes had grown wide and his breathing rapid, his body was tense, straining against itself. “You’ll marry me? You’ll do it?”

“Absolutely Garret. Now, merciful Andraste, please pass out.”

The surgeon was speaking in hushed, hurried tones to Cullen and Vivienne, drawing the bone saw from her tools she perched above the arm discussing quietly whether to begin below or above the elbow.

“I’ll try to leave the joint…”

“Just here, below the bend…”

The sweat was building on Garret’s face and his jaw clenched painfully in anticipation, Dorian had run out of soothing things to say so he turned to the surgeon instead. “Just do it!”

She exchanged a glance with Vivienne who nodded, and the saw met skin. Garret screamed at first, he struggled against Dorian and Cullen and Rainier and his eyes threatened to bulge out of his skull before they rolled dramatically to whites and he fell back limply. Dorian gritted his teeth and tried not to hear the sound of the saw cutting away flesh and bone. Then there was the filing. He didn’t even realise it was over until Sera -– a ball of nervous, bouncing energy a moment ago, quietly placed a hand on his shoulder. The others had retreated some, and Dorian finally released the pressure off his hands. Unsure of what to do, he found himself straightening Garret’s collar.

The surgeon had removed the hand and arm just below the elbow joint. Dorian could tell she did well. The flesh had been transposed over the end of the stump, the bone covered and skin sewn shut. There was an awful lot of blood on the ground, on their clothes, on Garret. There was no trace of the arm, or what was left of it, the surgeon having already, blessedly, spirited it away somewhere out of sight. Dorian looked up and saw Leliana quiet in the doorway, but Josephine, thankfully, absent.  

Dorian got shakily to his feet, he paced away, trying to find somewhere for his eyes to rest that didn’t have blood on it. He made the mistake of glancing down at his own hands, doubling over suddenly to keep from retching. He staggered to a wall and leant heavily against the stone.

There was silence for a moment before movement began again. Vivienne speaking quietly with the surgeon while she finished bandaging the stump, _two to three days for the healing to begin, six before he can move about and four to six weeks for further recovery. But he’ll live. Barring infection ... complications. Yes, he’ll live._

The surgeon left and returned with a stretcher and then Rainier and Cullen were gently lifting Garret onto it. Vivienne followed them out of the guardhouse chirping orders for more potions, warm blankets, hot water and looking disdainfully at her blood stained robes. Dorian felt a warm rush of gratitude for her.

He vaguely registered that he should follow, but his legs seemed too heavy. He shivered involuntarily, suddenly cold, overly aware of his pounding heart, the heady smell of the room. He stood helplessly, mind racing with thoughts he would rather pack away for later -– will he still return to the Magisterium? Will Garret remain Inquisitor? Will he have a home to go to if the Inquisition disbands? 

Through the fog of his own thoughts, he was suddenly enveloped in a crushing embrace. Two wiry but incredibly strong arms wrapped around his torso and a shaggy blonde head burrowed itself into his chest. After a moment of surprise, he returned the gesture, folding Sera up in a grateful hug. She was steadying, shaking herself –- but somehow the two together made a stronger shape. Dorian realised she was muttering into the front of his robes.

“Shit, piss, bugger, arse, fuck, fuck fuck.”

Dorian felt the corner of his moustache twitch with the upturn of his mouth. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”


	5. Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of a trauma, Garret struggles to relate to those closest to him and the life he almost left behind.

He felt like a bucket being lowered slowly into a deep, dark well. He had no power to pull himself up, all he could do was wait for the water to close over his head.

Everything hurt. Not just his arm, although that pain was keenest. There was no getting comfortable, his body felt like a cage. In the end, all he could do was lay flat on his back, stare at the ceiling and wait for Vivienne to arrive with his next treatment.

The potions helped somewhat, they eased the pain that was actually there, the pain of having bones reshaped and muscles repositioned and skin pulled taught. They did not help with the pain in his head, the pain that couldn't be there because the arm was gone. The elfroot and Vivienne’s careful tending and the surgeon's reassurance that all of the dead flesh had been cut away -– that dealt with the wound, the physicality of it. None of it helped with the flaring of the anchor that had been cut away, the green that seeped under Garret’s eyelids as he slept. Twice daily doses of elfroot accelerated the healing of the stump and other injuries sustained in the battle. Vivienne delivered the elixirs herself and tended him with magic. She used the potions and incantations to sustain him. He spent most of these days sleeping, passing in and out of wakefulness.

Each dose of elfroot found him swimming further into darkness, away from his body into the dim void. He drifted off at times, into the fade, these waking dreams the most disorienting part of his affliction. In the fade, he was still whole. Two hands, his unconscious mind still tethered to the before. He spent much of the time wandering. The fade was dark and empty, it came into focus when he stared directly forward but everything in his peripheral vision swam and shifted as though it danced to some distant music he couldn't hear. He called out for Solas, screamed his name till his voice was raw and he woke up in a cold sweat. Every time he jerked awake his shoulder sent pain arching across his chest.

Dorian was often beside him in these moments, brown hands naked of their usual finery, trembling as they touched him. Dorian fussed distractedly, talked almost incessantly about nothing at all. He seemed to be filling in the silence with his own wilted banter. Garret wanted to respond to him -- in any way -- but he felt distantly adrift.

On day three, Vivienne insisted Garret sit in the bed. The action, small as it was, made his clothes and skin damp with strain. He wavered there, sitting of his own strength for what seemed like an eternity before she braced him with pillows.

“You should begin eating again, you'll be weaning off the elfroot starting today.”

“He hasn't touched anything.” Dorian's fingers flickered to indicate a bowl of food on the table.

“He won’t have needed physical nourishment yet.”

“He hasn't said anything either, except when --”

“I am still here.” Garret's voice sounded hoarse like he'd been screaming in the waking world and not the fade.

“Of course you are darling, don't mind him.” Vivienne made a show of arranging Garrets pillows. After the sitting came the eating. Garret’s right hand trembled as it raised the spoon to his mouth. Vivienne held the bowl out for him patiently and didn’t watch. When he couldn’t have any more, he dropped the spoon and shook his head.

"Don't worry dear, you'll have more energy tomorrow." But he doubted it. She patted him on the knee and moved out of his vision.

Garret turned back to the window. He could hear Dorian speaking with Vivienne in a low, sharp voice. They were discussing him. How broken he must seem. How different. How wrong. Garret wanted to pull himself up from the water and speak to them, but every time he thought about opening his mouth the swirling dark threatened to pour in. He focused on the soft, shifting light through the trees, the green scar of the breach yawning in his peripheral vision.

"Will you eat something Garret?"

When he turned from the window it was to discover the interior dim and lit by candles. The light in the garden had changed from golden yellow to amber, shadows grown long and purple from the sun's inattention. Garret squinted into the room, eyes unfocused. A large, red bound tome lay face down on the table, spine bent. A page of scribbled notes in Dorian's hurried, scientific hand protruding from beneath. A candle was lit, wax beginning to pool.

"Have you been here all day?" Garret croaked, his voice made him self-conscious. He shifted in the bed and found his body sore from remaining still so long.

"More or less." Dorian shrugged, stretching as though he'd been sitting for some time. He had the habit of hunching over a book for hours, Garret was always reminding him to move around Skyhold. Long days of research in the Ostwick circle had taught him the importance of not ruining your shoulders -- it all seemed rather distant and trivial now.

"You should...be with the others." Garret managed, he wanted to stop talking as soon as possible, his voice sounded awful.

"And miss your riveting company? Hardly. Besides, now that Vivienne won't be bothering us, I thought we might have some wine with our meal and..." He faltered, "talk."

Garret managed a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"What," Dorian chuckled, "talking not appealing to you?"

Garret shook his head slightly.

"And wine?"

"I believe it's outlawed." His voice was beginning to sound like his again.

"Hmm, then I shall be an outlaw," Dorian smirked mischievously, producing a dark bottle and two glasses from under the table. He had no need to unstopper the bottle. Apparently, he had been an outlaw for some time. Dorian leant back in his chair and sipped, regarding the fresh bowl of food next to his book. "Looks like your dinner is the same as your brunch Amatus, is it gruel?"

Garret attempted a non-committal shrug. Dorian raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. "Smells like boiled nug. I could have Sera bring you something else from the tavern if you like?"

"I'm not hungry Dorian."

Dorian considered, sighed, picked up the fork and took a tentative bite, his lip curling. "Can't let Madame De Fer think you turned away your supper. Besides, it's better with a drink."

Garret turned back to the window, the shadows were still moving. The light was starting to fade. Dorian kept talking for a few minutes, fading into the background. Garret followed the lilting of his voice like the lift and fall of a musical composition. He closed his eyes and listened for the cadence of Dorian's voice instead of the words. He had no taste for polite conversation or platitudes, but as long as Dorian was speaking Garret could enjoy the music.

In the deep, warm darkness behind closed eyes, he drifted again, falling out of this world and into the next. He looked down at his left hand -- marked with the glow of the anchor. When he turned his face up Solas stood before him, the elf reached out his hand to Garret, his eyes dark and terrible with the depth of the knowledge they bore. He reached and the anchor answered by flaring green. Garret dropped to his knees, cradling his arm as the anchor bit deep into his flesh. When it flared, it wasn't just his arm that felt like it was being ripped apart. Under Solas' dark gaze Garret could feel his flesh rend from his muscles and bone, blood began to run down from the mark, he screamed.

“Garret?” Dorian was reaching for him, in the past and in the future, in the present and in the dream. He gripped Garret’s shoulder and his hand felt like an iron manacle.

 _"Mercifully Andraste, Garret please pass out."_ He heard in Dorian's terrified staccato. A memory? He pulled away, curling against the wall.

"Garret are you alright?"

When his eyes focused again and the darkness receded far enough for Garret to see, he found Dorian crouching by the bed, hands hovering helplessly.

Garret found his own face was damp, he wiped it on his right sleeve. Had he been crying? He was breathing hard. He flexed his left hand -- felt the pain of the anchor dissipating. He knew if he looked his hand wouldn't be there. Was he going mad? There was no way Garret could think to explain this pain, or even to vocalise it. He tasted blood in his mouth, swallowed hard. His throat was raw.

Dorian tried again to reach for him and Garret turned away, red-faced. "No, don't.." he managed. "Don't touch me."

Dorian dropped his hands to his legs, shoulders drooping. How quickly had he crossed the floor to the table and here? Garret could see his wine glass toppled over and bleeding into his parchments.

"What would you have me do?" Dorian's voice was very small, pleading.

Garret couldn’t, for the life of him, think of a single thing. “Dorian, I’m sorry I…”

“What happened?”

He cleared his throat, tried to explain. “I was just -- and then -- Solas …”

“Solas… were you in the fade?”

“I don’t know… maybe.”

“Amatus, you could be vulnerable…” Dorian was getting that look on his face like he was being presented some logic problem, something research might solve. He was drawing his eyebrows together and touching his bottom lip -- how can I fix this?

“Is that what you think?” Garret snapped, his face was burning and the adrenaline of his flashback was pulsing away to the tips of his fingers, like the warm spread of a strong alcohol, leaving his muscles trembling as it passed. He gripped the bed sheets to keep his hand strong. “You think,” he growled, “I’m vulnerable to demon’s possession -- like a child? Like a first year mage yet to pass his harrowing? Like an apostate?”

Dorian’s face slackened and Garret recognised how ridiculous his accusation must seem. The fact was, he might be vulnerable. He hadn’t felt this powerless since he was an eight-year-old child first manifesting his powers. He squeezed his eyes shut and was embarrassed to realise that he _was_ crying. Something he hadn’t done since he was a boy.

“Garret,” Dorian's voice was very even and measured like he was speaking to some wild and rabid animal. It made Garret’s stomach knot and his chest constrict with embarrassment. “In Tevinter it is not uncommon for a mage, when he’s been very injured or experienced some traumatic event, to spend time away from the fade -- meditating -- until he returns to full strength.”

“Solas is out there right now Dorian.” Garret spat back, “I can’t be sitting around like I’m fucking useless.” In his anger he thrashed in the bed, throwing the sheets away from himself. He looked down at his hand and peered at the empty bare palm. If he were to reach for the fade would it answer? Before, as Inquisitor, he had been so powerful, capable -- now he felt cut off from even himself.

Dorian reached for him a third time and Garret shrugged away his hand, losing patience. “Don’t touch me, Dorian!”

Dorian recoiled as if struck, his eyes dimming.

He stood, paced casually back to his seat at the table and righted his empty wine glass. He kept his back to Garret, grimacing down at his dampened notes but not bothering to try and save them. Garret watched him, breathing heavily, heart still pounding. Dorian made a show of retrieving the wine bottle and turning it upside down, it’s empty. He spoke over his shoulder, “I’ll be paying the tavern a visit before it closes for the night. Would you like anything?”

Garret felt winded. He shook his head and Dorian acknowledged with a nod. “I’ll leave you for the night then…” his voice softened, “Amatus.”

Garret instantly felt a wave of guilt and regret wash over him. He reached out his hand, but Dorian had already closed the door.

#

Dorian sat heavily across the table from Bull. The tavern was otherwise empty, not even a bartender standing by at this early hour. Despite that, Bull pushed over his own flagon which Dorian eyed suspiciously before accepting.

“How’s the boss?”

“Ah, he’s quite chipper this evening -- or morning, I’ve quite lost track of time -- and chatty. I can barely get a word in edgewise.” Dorian sniffed, turning the flagon of ale in circles, studying every scratch and groove in its surface. “Quiet, I had to tell him, spend a few hours in introspection I said.” He grimaced and drank.

“So… not so great, huh?” This elicited no response, so Bull continued. “He’s stubborn. And Proud. You must know what that’s like.”

"As much experience as I have with those traits it's quite different encountering them from others. I usually make a point of surrounding myself with the humble and easily placated."

Bull offered a tired nod of commiseration. "What about you Dorian, when does the magister return to Tevinter?"

Dorian shook his head, grimaced into the drink.

"You need a break," Bull grumbled, clapping Dorian on the shoulder.

" _I need to do this_." Dorian waved the hand away.

"Fine." Bull shrugged. "But when you're done measuring, remember, mine's biggest."

"As much as I didn't want to hear that, this isn't about pride."

Bull shrugged again, taking a swig of ale and kindly averting his eyes as Dorian's face coloured.

"Where is everyone?" Dorian asked moodily, frowning.

“Lying low. It’s been a stressful few days.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate it here?” Dorian sneered.

“It’s come up.”

Dorian scrunched up his face, his mouth disappearing into his moustache. His muscles were vibrating with tense energy, he gripped the flagon and spun around, tossing it to the ground. The foamy brown liquid spread out over the stones.

“I fucking hate it here.” Dorian spat.

“Get some sleep, Dorian. I’ll take a turn.”

Dorian dug his nails into his palms, shoulders heaving as the energy he’d coiled around himself was released in waves. He gave Bull a curt nod and left.

#

The Iron Bull showed up at Garret’s room not long after Dorian left. He sent for toast from the kitchen and sat down with a deck of cards. Garret stared at him for awhile as he shuffled, wondering if Dorian had sent him or if he had come of his own accord.

"Boss, can I get you something?"

"I'm not anyone’s boss anymore, Bull."

"Habits."

Garret grimaced as he shifted in the bed, unable to get comfortable. He rotated his shoulder in its socket, looking away from the stump of his arm.

"Here boss." Bull passed him a glass of water and Garret raised an eyebrow before accepting.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Actually Vivienne left pretty strict instructions to watch you until tomorrow. She’ll come by to reevaluate then. Lucky for you,” He sat back at the small table and resumed his game of cards. “I’m great with children.”

#

Dorian took a deep breath, standing outside the Inquisitor's door.

Sleep had not helped him, what little of it he managed. He had slept alone enough times in the last two years, doing so now, with Garret so close, only highlighted how distant he felt.

Dorian spent a moment donning the appropriate masks. He must be caring, but aloof. Sarcastic, but not offensive. Witty, but not insensitive. He mustn’t give any indication that he would rather be elsewhere, while all the time longing to be anywhere else. He must stifle the guilt that thought evoked every time it surfaced.

With no one in the hallway, he pressed his forehead briefly against the cool steel brace of the door. How long before things returned to normal? What was normal now? Just as he began to feel very much like he needed another ale, something impacted the door from the interior of the room. Dorian jumped back, scrambling for the knob. He burst in without regard for his facial expression or demeanour to find Garret leaning heavily on the small table by the bed. He appeared to have swept the tables adornments, a stack of books and a water jug, to the floor. Dorian had only a moment to wrest control of his expression. Concern carefully swallowed and replaced on his face by feigned amusement.

He noticed an empty bowl rolling away and then the white porridge strewn across the gold filigree wallpaper. The offending projectile. “Redecorating?” he closed the door.

“Far too stuffy in here for my taste.” Garret managed from between clenched teeth. His colour rapidly drained and Dorian stepped to his side. Instead of accepting the support, Garret turned away. He pushed off the table and managed three steps before sagging forwards. Dorian managed to catch him in his descent, supporting him to the bed.

“Andraste’s grace Garret, give yourself some time, won’t you?”

Garret seemed unable to catch his breath, he shrugged away Dorian’s hand.

“I can send for Vivienne…”

“I have no time.” Garret gasped. “How can I give myself time for this?” He sucked in air, holding up a trembling hand. “Solas is out there right now, preparing to render the veil, to destroy everything we’ve fought to protect and I’m…” he slumped forward.

Dorian swallowed, painfully. He mustered his courage and lowered himself to Garret’s side. He hesitated a second, placed a hand on Garret’s back. This time he was not shrugged away. “Breath.” He whispered.

Garret managed a shaking inhale and exhaled between clenched teeth. Dorian repeated his command. The next inhale lasted a beat longer, was held for a second and released with slightly more control.  After a few of these breaths, Garret began to still. Dorian reminded himself to breathe also, but his chest felt tight and strange.

“The world will wait, Amatus.” He said.  He knew the lie when he uttered it but hoped Garret didn’t.

“Will you?” Garret’s voice was steady now.

They had pointedly been stepping around that conversation. When Garret was in trouble –- when it was clear the anchor might mean his life -– there was no decision to be made. All Dorian wanted was _more time_. He wanted to change history, never have left in the first place. He wanted all of it back. He knew he would remain at Garrets side for however long they were given. He imagined that if the Inquisitor survived this calamity they would never again be parted. He had bargained with and cursed at the gods in turn. He had asked for only one thing.

It all seemed strange and pale in the light of day. A day with Garret, this new, angry version of him –- very much alive and promising to be so for a long time.

“If you’re going to leave, Dorian, I’d rather we get it over with.”

Dorian had been silent too long.

“Garret…”

“Please.” Garret pleaded, “if you’re leaving, leave. If you’re going to go, go. I don’t need _this._ Whatever this is.”

#

“Magey-bits…” Sera stepped across the threshold into Dorian’s room. He spared her only a sideways glance, buzzing from bag to bag, folding and packing and stuffing things inside as he became more anxious to leave. He angrily tossed a silk robe into one bag and cursed. He’d never be able to get the wrinkles out.

“What’cha doin’?” Sera asked slowly.

“What does it look like I’m doing Sera? I promise the truth is not far off.” 

“It looks like you’re making a big fat mistake.”

Dorian hesitated, another robe in hand. If he rolled this with the first…

“That’s for history to sort out, isn’t it?” His voice was casual and his tone biting, he’d already accepted the weight of the guilt.

Sera went from very still to very animated very quickly. She started pulling items out of bags and tossing them on the floor in piles. She flitted around the room just out of reach and faster than Dorian could observe. “This. Is. Fucking. Dumb.”

When she paused for a moment Dorian managed to grab her wrist. He pulled her to him and held. “He told me to leave.” he said calmly, “he doesn’t want me here.”

“Piss.” She spat in his face, he dropped her arm. “He’s scared, he hates himself, and he’s pushing you away ‘cause you’re halfway out the door and everyone knows it. And you’re just going to let ‘em?”

“You haven’t even been to see him!” Dorian snapped, “What do you know about it?”

She’s quiet for a moment, Dorian feels a knot of regret. It was hard enough for him remembering that night, but he does remember Sera cursing into his robes, shaking, scared. It was a wonder she was still here at all. Dorian looked away. “He’s different, he’s not…He doesn’t want me here.”

“Ya, you said that. Trying to convince yourself of something? What about what he said, what you said?”

“The proposal.” Dorian shook his head,  “I doubt he remembers it.”

Sera stepped in again, one last attempt. “You were going to leave before, you were all set to go -- even though you knew he was in trouble. Don’t do that. Don’t run because it’s hard.”

“He asked me to go Sera.” He steeled himself to look her directly in the eyes.

After a moment she turned away, kicked at something on the floor, the silk robe.

“Coward.” She mumbled and left.

#

When Garret woke this time, Thom Rainier was accepting food at the door, thanking the serving girl who brought Garret’s meals. When she was gone, Thom sniffed the bowl warily and shrugged. Took a bite. Garret watched him quietly for a few moments until he was noticed. Thom hesitated with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“You hungry?”

“Not overly.”

“Figured.”

He sat down in the red velvet armchair between the balcony doors and fireplace. He didn’t look up from the food as Garret leveraged himself into a seated position and swung his feet over the side of the bed cautiously. When his vision didn’t tunnel and his head didn’t swim he decided he was feeling better.

Instead of offering a hand or hovering, Thom made a point of focusing on eating, as though it weren't odd to be sitting in a lush, red and gold apartment suite. Most of their time as friends had been spent on the road, in battle, and in the tavern between battles. Somehow Thom’s casual demeanour made Garret feel almost normal.

Garret stood, swayed slightly on his feet, felt his stomach rumble angrily. Ah right,  his last meal had been a full day previous. He looked up rather longingly at the now half empty bowl of stew.

“Here.” Thom lifted the dinner roll that had accompanied the dish and mimed tossing it. Before Garret could protest, Thom lobbed the roll in his direction and Garret caught it in his right hand. He considered the bread for a moment with a smile, shook his head.

He padded slowly to the double doors of the balcony and, holding the stub of bread between his teeth, pulled back the red curtain. The light was golden and already skimming the roofs of the buildings beyond the window. He could see the sea glittering past the borders of the expansive palace estate. He ripped off a bite of bread, it was dry and scraped his throat.

“Thom, when you… left, for Val Royeaux, you knew you were going to be executed.”

Thom considered, pausing with the spoon below his chin.

“I did.”

“But that didn’t happen.”

Thom put the spoon back into the empty bowl and sat it down. “I had a friend with some pull who … saw a better way.”

Garret considered the glitter of it all, the gold. It seemed a strange veneer, painted on, not real enough to stand the punishment of time or trial. This world was built for the short term, not made to last like the ancient structures of the elves. He thought of Halamshiral, he thought of the fade. The thought made him queasy, he caught a glimpse of the breach, closed and smiling in the sky. The sight of it knotted his stomach. He turned away from the doors. His left arm was tingling, like when he had the flashback in front of Dorian.

“Is there always a better way?” He asked through gritted teeth.

Thom squinted into the light, considering him. “Not always.” He admitted.

“You were prepared to die. Ready. But you didn’t.”

The pressure was building in Garret's head, he could hear Dorian’s voice -- _“Merciful Andraste, Garret, just pass out.”_ His vision was starting to waver, he leant up against the door and slid to the ground, focusing on the cold of glass against his back. He put his head between his knees and focused on breathing, ignoring the pain in the arm that wasn’t there.

“I don’t know if anyone is prepared to die.” Thom watched him but didn’t stir from the chair as he spoke. “I’ve been with the old and the young and when it’s time -– no one wants to go. You didn’t, did you?”

“Want to die?” Garret wheezed, “No. Sometimes the pain… the pain was so bad I wanted it to end, would have chosen death just to make it stop, but I never wanted to leave.”

Thom settled forward in the chair with his arms on his thighs. “I didn’t realise it was that bad Garret. I’m sorry.”

Garret looked up into Thom’s eyes. “Sorry?”

“You were there for me when I was completely lost and I… I knew you were in pain and said nothing.”

“There wasn’t anything you could have done.” Garret put his head back between his knees. He wasn’t angry. He was tired.

“I can think of a few things.” Thom admitted, “but it was easier for me to pretend I didn't see. You're somewhat of a god to us. Our Herald.”

“You didn't want to it to be a lie.” Garret would have laughed if he wasn’t focusing all of his efforts on staying present in the moment. Instead, he grimaced and grit his teeth. “Guess I turned out to be a bit of a disappointment.”

Thom sat down next to him on the floor, Garret hadn’t even noticed him get up.

“Hey, focus here.” Rainier's voice rumbled, he reached out and took Garret’s hand firmly. Squeezed it. “This is real. Not a disappointment. Not a lie. A man. A man worth knowing, right? This is real. You’re with friends. You’re real.”

Garret focused on the low vibrations of Thoms' voice and his own breathing. Slowly, the phantom pain ebbed.

#

A knock at the door.

Thom raised an eyebrow, it was his second-day sitting vigil with Garret and he’d taken to whittling by the fire. He kept the room too warm. And he snored. "Expecting company?"

"No.” Garret was sitting opposite Thom in another armchair. He was leafing through some paperwork Josie had left before the crossroads, forgotten then, in the whirlwind of it all. He passed the quill from his right hand to his mouth and back to his hand as he shuffled papers. “Which is, I remind you, why you're free to leave"

The big man smiled ruefully, “Hardly company am I?”

Garret grimaced back, “Seriously Thom, I appreciate it but I'm quite fine on my own.”

Thom eyed him incredulously and shrugged. Garret had experienced several flashbacks since the first, but he was getting a handle on them slowly. Coping. Thom set his carving tools aside and went to the door. Before he quite made it there, it burst inwards and Sera bounded in, a bundle of energy. She hesitated a little once she passed the threshold. It was early afternoon, but the room was dark and candlelit, the curtains were drawn close, sombre. She shook it off like a wet mabari and flitted inside.

"Piss, it's dingey in here. Inky -- you look awful. Where's magey-bits?"

Garret repressed a sigh, "Don't pretend you don't know Sera."

"Fine. I heard you had a spat. You ought to come down from your high tower Quizzy and get some freshness. You're going to mould in here."

"It's fine. I'm fine." He made a show of standing up, shrugged his shoulders and offered her a small bow. It's the most he'd moved about all day and it made him want to vomit but Sera can be reasonable if you make an effort.

She made a great show of studying him. She hummed and hawed and looked him over like Cassandra appraising a new blade, drawing closer, pursing her lips dramatically. He saw the real concern under the jest but knew the game enough not to acknowledge it. He raised an eyebrow and rewarded her appraisal with a slow spin. "I'm all here Sera, ten toes ...Err, five fingers."

He'd make a joke for her, he'd play pretend. She needed to see him now and know he's alright and this need is small enough he can fill it. If only it were so easy with the others.

She hesitated another second and surprised him by bounding in for a hug, enveloping him in her thin ropey arms and squeezing hard enough he let out a quick breath. Garret leant backwards against the arm chair to support them both, his throat catching. He reached up and awkwardly touched her head. "Really Sera, I'm OK." When she didn’t let go he had to bite back tears, eyes casting about till he caught Thoms gaze pleadingly.

"All right now Sera," Thom lumbered over and patted her on the back. "The man needs to breathe."

Sera detached reluctantly, lip quivering just slightly as she regained her composure.

"Ya well, I ... I haven't been around to keep you guessing." It’s an apology -- one of the best she’s ever given him. She didn’t come earlier and she’s sorry.

"It's OK Sera."

"Course it is." She said half to herself. "Now what do you say, come down to the pub to eat?"

"I'm not supposed to drink alcohol yet." Garret apologised, "something to do with Vivienne's treatments."

"Ladies got too many rules!" Sera waved a hand. "Have you ever heard some injured sod not allowed to drink alcohol?"

Thom shook his head solemnly. "I've more often had it prescribed myself."

Garret suppressed a laugh. "I'm not sure I..."

“No room for arguing." Sera slipped an arm under Garret’s right side and started moving for the door.

“Sera, I’m not even dressed…” Thom held out an overcoat and Sera draped it over Garret’s shoulders. Garret dug in his heels, looking pleadingly at Thom. The big man shrugged apologetically. Cole appeared very suddenly and slipped in under Garret’s left arm.

"I want to help," And they were half-way out the door.

Down the hall, Garret's stomach churned. Sera buoyed him with a smile.

Down the stairs and his colour was fading, Cole glanced at him with concern.

Sera slipped free once they neared the tavern and Garret faltered. “I don’t think I can do this right now, Sera.”

She vibrated back to him and took his right hand. “Come on Inky, everyone wants to see you.”

This thought wasn’t as comforting as Sera thought it would be, Garret lowered his face, eyes unfocused. He could hear the rumble of Bulls laugh and maybe he imagined Dorian's sharp retort. The dark, murky water felt like it was rushing back into his brain -- his left arm tingled with lingering sensation.  

Sera tugged lightly on his arm and he took a stumbling step. He was moving very slowly, as though the atmosphere around him had become viscous. He was swimming through it -- each stroke draining him of vitality.

Cole suddenly stopped, holding Garret upright and still. He put a hand over Sera’s and shook his head. “Not ready, too many thoughts, too many faces. Every pair of eyes wanting something, empty. What helps one, hurts another.”

Sera looked with confusion from Cole to Garret.

Thom placed a big hand on Garret back, “I’ll meet you later, Sera.” he grumbled.

Cole turned Garret away and they started back to his room. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sera standing alone, watching them leave.

Garret was to face the council in two days.

In this moment he couldn’t even face his friends.


	6. Coming Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a little help, things will change for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mentions of suicidal thoughts in this first bit folks.

_He's falling, falling backwards through the inky blackness. He tries to turn his head to see what's below and catches a glimpse of the green, gaping maw. It's more frightening this close, usually held distant in the sky, usually a quiet half-smile but now ready to swallow him whole._

_He tries to slow his descent however he can but there is nothing to grab onto, no footholds. He concentrates, funnelling all of his energy to the anchor, he looks down in horror to find his hand gone, just an ugly, fleshy stump still red and swollen. He has no way to stop his fall, no recourse, he is helpless._

_He falls into the breach and murky dark green water closes over his head. He struggles, holding his breath, clinging desperately to the few precious seconds left of his life. In the water shapes are moving, relics floating by, demons shifting in the dark. Floundering, he opens his mouth to scream and water rushes in._

Garret woke gasping, clutching at his throat as though he were being strangled. He jerked up to sit and swung his legs to dangle off the mattress. He leant forward and wheezed, trying to deepen his breathing. In and out, out and cough and sputter and in and hold, out with more control this time, through your nose. Easy.

When he could see, he focused on the low pile of the rug under his feet. He tried to ground himself with it, feeling the scratch of the wool under his toes. Red. Blue. Solid. Real. Soft yellow and red moonlight shifted the colours of the rug. The curtains were slightly parted. The dual moons hovered low over the garden, barely visible over the edge of the balcony. Around them, the sky was slowly beginning to lighten. A few hours left before dawn.

Garret glanced around the empty room. It was the first night he'd spent alone since the crossroads. Dorian had stayed with him the first three, then a rotating roster of companions sat vigil, waiting to hear if he would cry out. None of them had slept well. Garret had been sleeping fitfully at best, or not sleeping at all.

Today -- was it today yet? -- would be his last to prepare before facing the council. They had deferred their final decision the seven days Vivienne requested. According to her directions, he was permitted to move around today, to stretch his legs, get out of the palace. Thinking about leaving this room made Garret nauseous. He had no real attachment to it, it wasn't his, none of the comforting belongings that said _home_ had made their way here, but it was safety. Privacy. A place to hide.

If he ended it here, now, he would never have to leave. Never have them look at him that way again, with pity. Never have to hear their apologies, their prattling on to fill the silence. Never have to see the pain in their eyes when he disappointed them. That was the worst, the hardest, the nearest pain. Sera, watching him slink back into hiding. Dorian, shrinking away from his anger, his dismissal. Garret knew -- _he knew_ \-- how much it meant for Dorian to be there. And he had dismissed him. At one time it had been normal for them to care for each other after taking a battle wound. How often had Garret been restricted to bed for a day or two and had no company but Dorian? His hard, brown body bruised purple and blue -- for they always fought side by side -- close and warm. His touch, healing, not through magic, but through closeness.

They hadn’t been close for some time.

Garret got shakily to his feet. The world didn't spin, the breach didn't tear open, the veil didn't crumble. He stepped to the balcony and pulled open the doors, passing into the cold night. Gooseflesh rose on his skin and his stump ached with the cold. He inhaled deeply and coughed. inhaled again. The sweet smell of the sea, just beyond the palace, filled his body and made him think of Ostwick, of his sister, brother, both dead. He thought of Dorian, for six months he had been in Tevinter and the sea had kept them apart. Now they were close, and further still. 

He inhaled deeply through his nose: the scent of salt water and loamy earth, the scent of cut grass and delicate flowers. The palace cooks were baking the mornings bread. He felt no joy, no wonder, no curiosity. The world seemed very dark and very cruel. What was out there but fear, evil deeds and evil people? Good people who would fall first before the coming storm, who Garret could never hope to protect.

He considered the two story drop from the balcony -- hardly a lethal height. He gripped the railing and imagined the air rushing past his face. The sensation was visceral, too much like his dream. He walked very slowly back into the room, turning his head side to side as though he were seeing it for the first time. There was a ceremonial blade over the fireplace. Dull. Rainier had left a short, slender blade on the table with a small pile of wood shavings. Garret imagined slowly bleeding into the red of the wool rug. The image reminded him keenly of the night he returned from the crossroads, bleeding onto the stones of the gatehouse.

He placed a foot in front of the other, even steps to the wash basin on the wall. He splashed his face with water from the basin and watched his reflection ripple away to nothingness. He considered drowning. Letting the water rush over his head and this time -- allowing it to do its dark work. Letting go.

Garret shuddered. How easy these images formed, how simple the act seemed. He wouldn’t do it, he knew he wouldn’t. Even in the nightmares, his body screamed to survive. Another day, another minute -- every fibre of his being fought for its right to exist. Every second since the Temple of Sacred Ashes he had fought to live.

It wasn’t that he wanted to die -- Garret didn't want to die -- and yet he wondered if he had survived at all. What had Solas done to him in the crossroads? Was he the same man, changed? Or had the man he was died, after all. 

#

He dressed without help. Chose a light, sleeveless base layer and a red overshirt with gold stitching. The empty cloth of his left sleeve was an eyesore he wasn't sure how to help. His clothes would have to be altered, for now, he bit his tongue and managed to knot the fabric under the stump. Andraste’s grace the mark was on his left hand, if he were without his right now he would be lost. The thought made him smile mirthlessly, it was a good thought. Good thoughts were fewer and further between these days.

He shrugged on a vest and clumsily threaded the buckles across his chest. The beige trousers he stepped into one leg at a time, and lastly, he pulled on a pair of soft, broken in leather boots. Tying the laces one handed was more of a challenge than he anticipated. He pulled them taut and looped them, rolling them together and tucking them into the top of the boots.

It's the first time he’d dressed -- he looked himself over in the mirror. The image that greeted him was less repulsive than he expected, he turned slightly to the right and squinted. He looked almost normal. Something in his stomach rebelled and he sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. He leant forward and breathed heavily, fixating on his poorly secured boot laces. He was already tired.

There was a wrap at the door and Garret took a deep breath before calling out. He heard the creak of the floor and footsteps.

Varric walked slowly to the armchair by the fireplace, the one Thom favoured, and lowered himself down to sit. He held a bundled sheaf of papers in his lap. 

"I thought I should return this to you."

He placed the bundle on the side table. Garret found himself transfixed by it, the carefully tied ribbon and his own scratchy cursive beneath.

Varric peered sideways at him for a moment before asking, "Do you mind, if I ask what it is?"

"An epilogue.” Garret raised his head. “I knew you were writing a book about the Inquisition. I thought I should write my own ending."

"It's a suicide note."

"It's a goodbye."

Varric sighed and Garret could see he was struggling to put something into words, whatever it was. He scratched his chin. "It's not bad. You're not a writer so it's fine that it's a little wordy. But it's not bad. I thought you could give it a rewrite. Since the ending has changed."

"That so."

"Ya, I hear the protagonist is gonna outlive us all."

Garret dropped his head back to his boots, his eyes were stinging. "Varric..."

"It's a little dark, you know, it's coming from a pretty scary place. So I need to know, I really do... If you're still in that place."

Garret didn't look up, his vision blurred as the water surged over his head, how carefully he'd been treading water, to keep his head dry till now.

Varric stood, "so are you?"

Garret couldn't say the words so he just nodded. He focused on the edge of the Orlesian wool rug and willed himself to keep it together. Tomorrow he faced the council. He had to keep it together. Varric plodded across the rug and set himself down next to Garret on the bed, his legs dangled off the ground but sitting they were almost the same height. He enveloped Garret's shoulder with a strong, calloused hand.  

"You've got a lot of goodbyes in here kid. Any one of those people would rather talk face to face about your life than read about your death. You know that? You've got people that want to help you. That care about you. Life doesn't end here, not with the mark, and not with the Inquisition." Varric cleared his throat, squeezed Garret’s shoulder.

"Varric..."

"I have to say this shit, you didn't leave me a choice and no one else is gonna do it. After Hawke... after Adamant, I wrote a lot of letters. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. Leaving me this was your way of sparing me the ink, I get that, but ..." He rubbed at his eyes and Garret felt his spill over.

"Varric I'm sorry, I ..."

"Nah listen, after Adamant I wrote a lot of letters and I never want to end a book that way again. I don't get that serious, Garret, it's not in my wheelhouse."

“I shouldn’t have…”

“No -- kid -- I’m glad you did. This isn’t easy but it’s better than sending these letters. I want to help you while you still need help, not when you’re cold and buried. Let’s talk, OK? Let’s talk about it.”

#

Dorian answered a knock at his door and found Varric leaning casually in the hall.

“Sparkler, good, you’re still here!” Varric grinned, “Sera said you’d left days ago.”

“I’ve booked passage for tomorrow,” Dorian answered, ruffling.

“After the council's decision, I hope.”

Dorian suppressed any facial expression that might give him away. “We’ll see.”

Varric let himself into the room, eyeing the half-packed luggage strewn about. “Well, I have a proposition for you.”

“You’re about to explain.” Dorian crossed his arms irritably.

“How about I buy your way into a quick round of Wicked Grace, and you come down from your self-imposed prison and join the group.”

“The group?”

“Your boyfriend is there and … he’s doing better. Fresh air is helping. Come on, join us.”

Varric started ushering him towards the door and Dorian dug in his heels. “As much as I would like to relieve you of your money, I don’t think Garret want’s to see me Varric.”

Varric pulled a face, shrugged. “You want to see him?”

“Not if he isn’t expecting me,” Dorian grumbled.

“Well, he is, so better fade step on over.” Varric stepped past him into the hall and Dorian had a split second to consider a night of stewing in his own misery or following the dwarf. He followed.

#

The evening stretched thin, the air turned brisk and the light turned golden from lit candles and the hearths low flame. The night sky was murky and dark, clouds obscuring the moon, Satina only visible as a slice of red. Garret was glad for the clouds. They hid the green glow of the scar in the sky, swallowed up the memories, obscured the past.

His companions were settling into comfortable silence, even Sera was relaxed and quiet, her shaggy blonde head resting comfortably on Garret’s left shoulder. His arm was going numb, pins and needles in the stump of his elbow, but the pain was not important. He rather have her closeness. She had done an admirable job as the left hand of the Inquisitor during the game.

_“Ahhh no! We had em!"_

_"Sera you need to work on your bluffing! We would have had them if you hadn't given us away."_

_"Hardly my dear, you have quite too many tells."_

_"Oh, and what might those be?"_

_"Don't tell him, you'll ruin it for everyone else. Er... Ma'am."_

_"You have a vein."_

_"What?"_

_"She's right! There's a vein on your forehead that stands out when you're losing."_

_"Maker's bosom, I haven't any control of my forehead veins!"_

_"That’s your tell!"_

Cole had been flitting around the group all night, whispering a word here or chiming in with a story detail there -- now he was sleeping in a chair by the fire with his hat scrunched up in his arms. Vivienne had retired, Josephine was resting her cheek in her palm, Cullen looked like a tired dog -- eyes drifting closed and snapping open again. Leliana’s smile was warm and her occasional laugh loud. Thom and Bull seemed alert, they traded barbs and war stories while the others listened. Varric shuffled his deck of cards, they had long abandoned the game, pockets empty. Josephine had cleaned them out once again.  

Dorian was leaning back in his chair with a small, half smile beneath his moustache. Every so often Garret felt Dorian’s eyes on him, his cheeks burned, he wrestled with the edges of his mouth.

Suddenly Varric stood up, “Well friends, we’ve got an early morning ahead of us.”

Garret shared a grateful smile with the dwarf and Josephine nodded emphatically. The talks were scheduled to resume first thing, with the decision to be delivered before noon. Only Josephine and Garret were to go before the ambassadors, but Garret appreciated the unspoken message, _we’re with you kid._

Sera sat up and Garret stretched his shoulders. Josephine yawned and Cullen yawned back. One by one, his companions stood, came to Garret and clapped him on the back or gripped his hand. Hardly any words were exchanged, but Garret felt his eyes burn and his throat catch.

In the end, only Varric and Dorian were left. The dwarf made a show of stretching with a yawn. He gave Dorian a soft elbow to the shoulder, “You’ll make sure he gets back to his room alright?”

Dorian almost protested -- he had been keeping a safe distance all night.

“I’m sure he will,” Garret interjected, getting to his feet.

Varric smiled and waved as he left. Dorian attempted to avert his gaze, but it didn’t last. When their eyes locked, Garret watched Dorian’s expression melt. His eyes softened, eyebrows turning up in the centre, corners crinkling. It was a specific expression. 

Loved.

That’s how Garret felt when he met those eyes. He could see it in every inch of Dorian's face. They were alone, and they were close and for the first time since before the crossroads -- Garret felt like reaching out. Dorian reached first, extending a hand. Garret felt his skin burning as his cold fingers wound together with Dorian's warm ones.

They walked in silence to the rooms, each one hesitant to break the evening's mood. Everyone had carefully focused their conversation on the here and now -- they were alive and they were together, no worries of tomorrow, no battles of the past. They had all been through the fire and, although some emerged more scarred than others, they had all changed. The warm memories, the closeness they had shared, the laughter, had made them a family. No decision of the counsel, or even rendering of the veil, would change that fact.

It was a warm truth that was hard to speak into, was better as an action than words.

So they walked silently, shoulders brushing.

When they reached Garret’s rooms Dorian hesitated on the threshold. There was nothing he wanted more than to go in. Garret watched him closely, stepped through the door and nodded Dorian inside. He obeyed. Once inside, Dorian paced away. He went to the washbasin, paced back to the hearth. He touched Garret’s unmade bed, glanced at the empty plate on the table. He took in the drawn curtains, the wrinkled clothes on the floor, the untouched pile of armour in the corner, undisturbed since it was scoured for blood and stashed to the side.

Garret watched him as he did this, leaning against the back wall. Finally Dorian summoned enough courage to break the silence.

"Here's the problem." He started methodically, paused and took a breath. "I hate you."

Garret pushed off the wall and took a step closer.

"I am angry." Dorian continued with more urgency, stepping backwards. "We're supposed to do things with each other, for each other -- together. We're supposed to grow old together and die wrinkled and grey and _side by bloody side_. You knew there was a chance that wouldn’t happen -- you said nothing."

Garret looked taken aback, "I wanted to..." he started but Dorian raised his hands and continued.

"Actually, that's wrong, you said ' _I'm fine Dorian, nothing's wrong Dorian, nothing new to report here Dorian_ ' while I dithered about on the other side of Thedas, taking you at your word. I hate you for keeping that from me. What if the last days we spent together were here in _fucking_ Orlais? What if you had died and left me with nothing but fucking regret? You would have passed into golden memory like the best I ever had and I would have hated myself. For … for leaving, for not being there. Well, you didn't die, _asshole_ , so I get to hate you instead.” He took a shuddering breath, “It's better for my ego." He swallowed hard and turned away long enough to regain some composure. Garret’s face glistened distractedly and Dorian shook his head, determined to continue.

"But that's not all, and this is what makes me really angry. I _still hate myself_ because you didn't hide this from me all on your own. No one had to tell me. I knew months ago. Maybe as far as six months ago, when I saw you last at Skyhold. I said goodbye and you said goodbye and somehow I knew you meant it. I could tell it was different." 

"I knew from the things the spies told me -- of course I was having you watched, don’t look surprised -- they told me the Inquisitor was seen less and less outside of Skyhold, that he always wore gloves, that he looked sick. They told me that! I wrote Leliana and asked if you were ill and she confided -- in an unsecured letter, so she must have wanted me to do something -- that she thought you _were_. That there wasn't anything confirmed yet but that the anchor might be growing worse. She fucking told me that. I wrote to you after and asked how you were and you said fine and I had things to do so I stayed in Tevinter. I can't forgive myself for that. I can't." He was out of breath again, he sucked in the air and let it out in a long shaking exhale. This was much harder than he had anticipated.

"Dorian..." Garret started moving towards him again and this time Dorian let him close the gap one step.

"You don't get to talk yet.” He pointed wildly, “I'm not finished. So here we are in Orlais. The first we've seen each other in months and it's so obvious and neither of us is saying anything. So I hate us both, I hate what we did. Because when you were lying in my arms, bleeding out on the floor, screaming in pain -- my world almost ended and I saw it all very plainly. _I am in love with you Garret_." His voice broke, he took another step backwards and came up against the bed.  "You're not the only one who almost lost something, who went through a fucking trauma because my heart stopped and the only thing that saved me was your stubborn hold on living." He was growing tearful, Garret had stopped approaching, waited for the tirade to end.

"And then you pushed me away, _you bastard_ , and I told myself that you needed time. That's fine, I understand that. But I need to think about _myself_ Garret -- and I don't need time. I don't need time at all. I need you. I need to wake up beside you in the night, I need to fall asleep beside you in the evening. I need to hold you so I don't fly apart. I need to be able to see you while I'm reading because I can't focus on a bloody thing unless I know you're alright. I haven't gotten a single thing done Garret. Not one. I haven't read a single word that I can actually recall." Dorian felt his adrenaline ebb, he was suddenly shaky and unsure, what had he just said? He tried to take another step back and stumbled against the bed, almost buckling.

Even If he had been considering how Garret would react, he could not have anticipated the speed with which Garret closed the space between them. This time he left Dorian nowhere to go. He grabbed the back of Dorian's neck and pulled him in for a rough, desperate kiss. Dorian didn't hesitate, he wrapped his arms around Garret and held and held. When Garret pulled away it was to kiss Dorian's face. His eyes. The mark on his cheek. The space between his eyebrows. The slope of his forehead. Garret kissed every inch of him, whispering into the hollow spaces, "I'm sorry, Amatus. I'm sorry."

When they pulled apart Dorian looked apologetic. "I somehow wasn't expecting that." He admitted.

Garret smiled, a hint of mischief in the corner of his mouth. "It was the only way I could see to make you stop."

"A tactic I do not oppose."

They sat down on the bed, Dorian studying Garret’s hand with his own. Garret watched him very quietly, some unsure emotion playing across his face.

“May I speak now?” Garret asked finally.

Dorian nodded, “I’m quite sick of my own voice for once.”

“Maker forbid.” Garret spent a moment gathering himself, he gripped Dorian’s hands firmly. “I haven’t been honest with you, I’m sorry for that.” He looked down at their hands.

“These last few days have been... uncertain. Confusing. I haven’t been myself. If I’m honest, I don’t really know when -- or if -- I will ever be that man again. I can’t help feeling like that version of me, the Inquisitor, is gone. The man I was before -- the circle mage -- he’s not here either. What I am now?” he snuck a glance at Dorian’s face and was relieved to find him looking just as enamoured as before. He took a breath and smiled, “your guess is as good as mine. The point is, I do need time. I can’t just … pretend.”

“I understand…” Dorian began but Garret shook his head.

“Tomorrow, things will change again. They’ll keep changing until Solas is stopped and I have to stay at the front of it. I have to. I’m going to need you, Dorian, even if it’s just someone to believe I can do this.”

“I do.”

“I know.” Garret paused for a kiss, moving closer to Dorian so their legs were entwined. “Everything is changing and we need to change too -- we can’t go back to the way it was.”

Dorian considered, “I have to go back to Tevinter, Amatus. Not right away -- but soon. The alternative is having my name revoked. Giving up my father's seat in the magisterium, and everything Meavaris and I have worked for…”  

“I know.” Garret’s voice was hoarse, “I know. I wouldn’t ask that of you. And you must understand I will be doing everything in my power -- such as it is -- to stop Solas. We will have differing purposes. Differing paths.”

“Then what,” Dorian choked, “what do we do?”

Garret smiled softly, “We walk those paths -- divergent as they might be -- together, married. I may not be the man you fell in love with Dorian, but I need you to know that I will love you as furtively and passionately as I can. I will support you and honour you, however I am capable. It is not only the smart thing to do, it is the only thing to do. If the world is changing, if it’s filled with darkness and corruption and death -- I would have the world know we are stronger as one, we are strong enough to survive this.”

Dorian couldn’t speak. Not that he didn’t have things to say, he found himself momentarily unable to give them a voice. Instead, he nodded, slowly at first and then emphatically. “Yes,” he managed at last. “Let’s.”

“Let’s…”

“Do that thing,” Dorian gasped, "Get… married.”

Garret couldn’t help it, he felt something like joy bubbling inside him and let it spill into a deep laugh, “Oh, you’re having trouble saying it aren’t you.”

“Honestly,” Dorian laughed, “This is the most we’ve said to each other in a year and I’m quite exhausted. Let’s get married. Garret, let’s get married.”

When they touched each other, it was with surprising tenderness, like exploring another person for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading friends, I'd love to see your comments. This is likely it for the moment, although here's a treat: 
> 
> http://kjewellart.tumblr.com/post/157791198212/dorianmance-week-roundup-time-d-d


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

 

 

> _Passion burns bright, in a time of uncertainty, it brings us hope. Let it flare so that all can see. That joy is not held back by war, or need, or name. Let them scoff and tut. Be happy above all._
> 
>  

“The world will wait, Amatus.” It’s said as a command, Dorian’s voice hardened to a blunt edge. He needs it to be true. He pulls Garret to him earnestly. If their days are to be numbered, if their time together brief, _let them have this day_.

For all his study of temporal magic -– Dorian wished he had learned to freeze a moment.

It was warm, gloriously so for the mountains in the fall, the sun bright and gold through the leaves of the amber clad trees. Their friends, gathered about the garden, watch them with warm, quiet smiles. A breeze sets the trees clapping, Cole plays a trill high note on a little wooden flute.

Garret's body --  his husband's body -- close to his.

A moment.

Just for today, the world waits.

 


End file.
